


Like Today Never Happened

by Nefhiriel



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: And Did I Mention Team Feels?, Angst and Feels, Artist Steve Rogers, Avengers - Freeform, Avengers Family, Avengers Feels, Because of Reasons, Bromance, Domestic Avengers, Dubious Science, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Epic Friendship, Eventual Happy Ending, Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Hulk Smash, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Powers, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Powerlessness, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Avengers, Protective Hulk, Protective Thor, Protectiveness, Scrawny!Steve, Sickfic, Steve Angst, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Feels, Super Soldier Serum, Team Dynamics, Team Feels, Thor Is Not Stupid, Thor Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1536257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one should be able to just <i>steal</i> Captain America's health. The Avengers are all agreed on that. And yet there Steve is: stuck in a hospital bed with a whole slew of medical issues - and nothing about this is remotely okay. </p><p>They've got to make this right. They've got to <i>fix this</i>. It's just going to take a while.</p><p>OR</p><p>Steve is reverted to his pre-serum state, and the Avengers deal with the fallout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I have been working on for AGES. It'll take me a while to get it all presentable, but the writing is completed. So, for those of you who are following [Intersecting Lines](http://archiveofourown.org/series/90739), this isn't going to hijack any of my energy for that.
> 
> I apologize in advance for the dubious science. In hindsight, I should've just gone with Aliens and Magic as my method for "explaining" what happened to Steve. BUT, there is a lot of scrawny!Steve. And in that pursuit, an author is allowed a certain number of crimes against reality, amiright? 
> 
> Thanks to my super-beta-sister, Imbecamiel, and to loads of prompts ([1](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/9218.html?thread=19667714&), [2](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/8247.html?thread=17652791&), [3](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7293.html?thread=14402941&), [4](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7293.html?thread=13087869&)) for giving me the excuse to write a lot of unrepentant Steve!feels.

_**U.S. Recruitment Office, Patient Medical History Assessment** _

_DATE: 14 th March, 1941_

_SURNAME: Rogers_

_FIRST NAME: Steve_

_HEIGHT: 5’4”_

_WEIGHT: 95 lbs._

_ SUMMARY OF PATIENT HEALTH ISSUES: _

_Asthma_

_Scarlet fever_

_Rheumatic fever_

_Sinusitis_

_Chronic or frequent colds_

_High blood pressure_

_Palpitation or pounding in heart_

_Easy fatigability_

_Heart trouble_

_Nervous trouble of any sort_

_Has had household contact with tuberculosis_

_Parent/sibling with diabetes, cancer_

_…_

[   ] _1\. Found fully acceptable for induction into active military services._

[ **X** ] _2\. Found not acceptable for induction into active military services._

 

_ FOR STAMP 1A/4F:  _

            [ **4F** ]

 

* * *

 

“Where _is_ he? What have you done to him?”

Bruce decided right then and there that he hadn’t previously had a full understanding of just how terrifying Thor could be when he _wanted_ to be terrifying. Thor’s sometimes almost cheerful battle cry was nothing compared to the weight of threat he could layer into a seething, low-voiced command. Gone was the good-humored man with the laughing eyes and a boyish smile; present was the God of Thunder, Mjolnir gripped in one hand like an extension of his arm.

Listening to Thor, and watching the object of Thor’s wrath shrink back, stirred Bruce’s own suppressed rage. Bruce wouldn’t let himself go there. Not yet. Not unless Hulk was actually needed. The whole team was here, spread out through the labyrinth of a mad scientist’s basement lab, all of them acting like a single unified body: in sync, unanimous in purpose— _angry_. Over the comm system they were all equipped with Bruce could hear Natasha, Clint, and Tony calling clipped information, like echolocation for one another: “Clear,” or “No signs of life,” or “This place is a _dive_.”                                     

Bruce wanted desperately to be a part of the rampage, not as himself, but as The Other Guy. The one who could do more than act as Thor’s voice of reason. He was wasted in the role, anyway. He wasn’t about to stop Thor from shaking the scientist until his teeth rattled. Even assuming he’d wanted to, success would’ve been debatable. Definitely inadvisable as Bruce.  

But he knew The Other Guy could easily smash this place to bits, bringing it down around their ears. And, in any case, the place _was_ deserted. At the door, taking care of Grunt One and Grunt Two had been child’s play, Tony and Natasha doing so with relish before Thor could charge ahead or Clint could nock an arrow. This room, with its skeleton crew of patchwork equipment on rickety tables, was as furnished as any of the rooms that Bruce had seen on their way in.

It would’ve been a laughably amateurish operation—if it weren’t for the fact that the guy had developed some kind of knockout gas strong enough to take down Captain America.  It would have been laughable, had he not kidnapped their teammate for God-knew-what purposes. 

As Thor had put it, “The coward had not even the decency to issue a challenge in open combat.” Which was far more delicately put than Natasha’s response to the news that Steve had been grabbed while out on his motorcycle three days ago. Bruce didn’t speak Russian, but he’d gotten the gist of it regardless. 

SHIELD had of course immediately been on the case, securing every piece of crime scene evidence down to the last dust mote that might’ve come in contact with Steve or his kidnapper. But it was a sleep-deprived Tony who crowed in triumph first—a little hoarsely, from yelling a steady stream of orders alternately at JARVIS, Pepper, and occasionally Bruce, who’d done what he could to expedite the search (which had mostly comprised of standing in as a Watson to Tony’s Sherlockian leaps of techno-forensic deductions).

And here they were, not feeling so triumphant at the moment, because there was no sign of Steve, after all. 

“You took too long. He’s dead,” the scientist sneered in Thor’s face, the most convincing proof yet that the man was certifiably insane. “Or as good as dead. He probably wishes he was.”

Bruce instinctively reached out as Thor grabbed the man by the front of his shirt, bashing him against the bare cinderblock wall. Bruce met Thor’s dark gaze and couldn’t hold his actions against him, but he did crouch to check the scientist for a pulse. He was alive, which was only a good thing because they might still need answers from him.

They’d just finished trussing the man with some handy electrical wire when a shout from Clint came across the comm: “Found him! West wing, third door down.”

 The Avengers converged.

It was anti-climactic, really, rushing through the mauled and crushed door to find… Steve. Alive, thank God. Definitely alive, if bruised and grimy. That was the sort of anti-climax they could all handle.

But relief started and ended there. Steve was curled up on a cot, and the face turned towards the flickering light of a florescent bulb…well, it wasn’t unrecognizable, exactly. Clint had recognized him enough to call them all as soon as he’d spotted him.

And it _was_ Steve. There was the currently-disarrayed shock of blond hair, covering his forehead, almost hanging in his eyes. The level, serious set of the eyebrows and chin. The familiar blue eyes, fluttering half open to regard them. It was all there, carved into a long face with thin cheeks and a sharp jaw.

As for the rest of him, it was even more of a punch to the gut. He was _tiny_. Curled into a fetal position like that, he looked like a starved street urchin.

They all stared, for one surreal moment of incomprehension.  Then Steve coughed, using one all-skin-and-bone arm to push himself up into a sitting position. “Hi guys,” another cough interrupted, his free hand pressed to his sternum as if to keep himself from shattering apart from the force of the paroxysm. He shivered, and smiled a rueful smile—and, however wan, the smile worked like a spell-breaker, because it was one-hundred-percent Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he added, because Steve was always up for using well-worn punch lines for the greater good, if only to say something—anything—to unify the team. But, really, if anyone could pull off using phrases that should’ve been long-since retired, it was Steve. 

“My friend,” Thor was the first to speak, stepping forward, with a voice suddenly bled of anger, “we came as swiftly as possible.”

“I know you did. I knew you would—be coming.” Steve’s eyes were fever-bright, genuine, earnest. Pained. “He… Radner. The guy who took me. He did something while I was unconscious.” He shook his head. “I think he said he was trying to find a way to reproduce the serum’s effects, or transfer it, or distill it, somehow. But whatever he did…” Steve’s adam’s apple bobbed, drawing attention to just how skinny his neck was. “I woke up like this. Like I was, before the serum.”

Tony swore under his breath with an uncharacteristic depth of unstinting feeling, and not even of a sarcastic variety. Actually, the fact that he hadn’t made any wisecracks so far was groundbreaking enough.

Clint looked decidedly in need of something to shoot, his face a stony glower, fingers twitching with the need to caress the fletching of an arrow.

Natasha shrugged out of her leather coat, handing it to Steve, before looking chagrinned at her own actions—at her assumption that out of the team she and Steve were the closest in size. It was an assumption based upon a painful new reality of fact. “Steve—” 

“—No. Thanks, Natasha. Really.” He slipped into it, and his rueful expression sharpened. “It fits. It actually fits me, with room to spare.” His choked laugh made something tighten in Bruce’s chest.

“Let us get you away from this place,” Thor’s voice was barely a rumble. “We have detained the villain responsible for harming you. He will answer for his crimes.”

“Fury’s waiting to take him into custody?” Steve asked.

“Coulson.” Tony said it flatly, like a death sentence.

“Ah,” Steve remarked, with a feeble chuckle, beginning to stand, arms braced against the cot for support. He stood a moment on his own, eyes going from one teammate to the next, assessing each as if _they_ were the ones changed, standing there stripped of strength.

But, then, his vantage had changed after all, quite literally. He was so _short_ , especially next to Thor.

Then he took a step, hand returning to his sternum, a suppressed cough lodging in the back of his throat with a breathless huff. His face blanched, brows furrowing and mouth tightened. And then his eyes glazed over, rolling back in their sockets.

Thor caught him, picking him up with ease—not in a fireman’s lift, but in his arms, like a child. “He breathes,” he informed them, movements deft and unexpectedly graceful as he secured Mjolnir to his belt without jostling Steve. But Thor’s expression as he looked down in surprise at the inconsequential weight of _Captain America,_ unconscious in his arms, was one of clear bewilderment.

There was something unquestionably hard to witness about the whole thing.

Chin thrust out defiantly, Thor departed with long strides, as if he were called upon to carry around downsized friends every day—as if he needed to use his own strength to maintain enough dignity and pride for himself, and Steve. 

The rest of them fell in behind wordlessly but still vigilant, and were maybe just a little bit disappointed to leave without being accosted.

Coulson’s expression when he saw them—when he saw Thor, and _Steve_ —was priceless, because of its rare and unguarded expression of surprise.  Bruce hadn’t ever seen him so look unprepared. But he didn’t remain startled for long, and hurried by quickly with a retinue to take Radner into custody.

 _Better you than me,_ Bruce concluded, wishing Radner all the worst.

 

* * *

 

“Believe me,” Fury spoke calmly, forcefully, “we’re leaning on him. Radner will talk eventually.”

They were gathered at SHIELD HQ, Radner in a holding cell, Steve in the infirmary. The Avengers had arrived to debrief at Fury’s summons without having to wait for anyone, even Tony, to trickle in ten minutes late. That didn’t mean any of them had been in a docile mood as they’d gathered around the table and taken seats.

“Yeah?” Tony’s voice bit with sarcasm. “‘Eventually’ doesn’t quite have the ring of imminence I’d like to hear. How about letting the green guy _lean_ on him a bit?”

“I would be all too willing to question the prisoner at length,” Thor volunteered, a hand resting on the table, fingers loosely curled as if around a phantom Mjolnir. “He would not resist my persuasion long, that I can promise you.”

The all turned to look at him, not because the offer was unexpected, but because of the volume of his tone. Or, rather, the lack of volume. Thor seemed to have found his indoor voice at last. It was unnerving.

“I could tag along.” Clint shrugged under Fury’s look. “You know. We could get a little good cop/bad cop routine going.” It wasn’t clear where Clint planned on getting the _good_ cop, because it was obvious which part of the skit he auditioning for.

Thor appraised his suggestion with confusion, but a clear willingness to learn and adapt whatever technique he’d had in mind.

“You all know that when it comes to interrogations _I_ am the expert here,” Natasha interrupted, a compelling look of purpose in her eyes. 

“Yeah, well,” Tony added casually, “if anyone’s going to confuse Radner with witty banter, you all know who’s got to be involved.”

“Enough,” Fury cut them all short. “None of you will go anywhere near Radner.” His gaze met each of theirs in turn, glare ever potent enough to make up for only having one eye for the task. “Right now, he’s suffering from a rather nasty concussion.” Far from casting any blame, there was a certain grim amusement in his tone. “He’s hardly been conscious for more than a few minutes at a time, but when he’s in a state to answer any question, Coulson and I will be the ones to get them from him. _Now_ ,” he continued, “as for Captain Rogers, we’ll keep you apprised of his health.”

Coulson entered then, fingers tapping vindictively at the tablet in his hand. “I have news on that front, Sir. Apart from the obvious issue at hand, Captain Rogers is suffering from malnourishment, dehydration, and some rather serious lung congestion, none of which is aided by the return of a myriad of previous standing health concerns, including asthma and a weak heart.” He looked up for the first time, and there was a brief hesitation almost of embarrassment or apology, as if he’d forgotten has was talking to a live audience. The formal tone relaxed, as he added more kindly, “He’s being put on broad-spectrum antibiotics, and monitored carefully. The doctors assure me he should be alright, given time and rest.”

The obvious retort to that ridiculous assurance hung in the air like an accusation that Coulson didn’t deserve just for being the bearer of unhelpful and analytical news. It was going to take a lot more than antibiotics or rest to make this “alright.”

Fury sighed heavily. “Thank you, Agent Coulson. The rest of you are dismissed.”

“But Sir…” Natasha started.

“I think it’s unanimous,” Clint continued for her.

“We’d, ah…prefer to stick around here,” Bruce joined in.

“I could not leave at such a time,” Thor concurred.

“Yup. Guess I’m stuck raising my hand, too,” Tony drawled, actually raising his hand. “Can’t abandon the Cap just ‘cause he gone and got himself fun-sized.”

Fury glanced around at them with bemusement. “I’m not suggesting you abandon him. We _will_ keep you updated about the situation. Go home. Leave. Get some rest. You got him back—there’s nothing else you can do right now.”

“He is our _friend_ ,” Thor stated, as if there was nothing more meaningful or persuasive in the world.

“He doesn’t really have anyone,” Natasha added. “You know. A friendly face.” She looked embarrassed as soon as she’d said it, but she didn’t take it back.

Clint’s smirk was always a little alarming. “Well, I’m not sure any of us can provide the _friendly_ … But she’s right. He doesn’t have anyone to bring flowers and teddy bears to his sick room.”

Tony grimaced at the words “sick room,” as if the selflessness of the motion he’d volunteered to join was just beginning to dawn on him. “Hey, I’m not saying I’m in this to mop any fevered brows. I _can,_ however _,_ provide teddy bears. Maybe even balloons.”

“Sir,” Coulson added his voice to theirs, “Perhaps it _is_ time Captain Rogers woke up to something familiar for a change?”

None of them, Bruce thought, had really been thinking about their reasons for wanting to stay in those exact terms. But they were thinking it now.

Perhaps the most impressive part of the whole verbal game of Ping-Pong was the fact that Fury had remained mute long enough for them to play it. When they were finished, his responding scowl wasn’t his most convincing. "Do I look like I care if you people choose to spend your money and downtime on teddy bears and balloons? Suit yourself.”

None of them but Tony had the poor taste to actually take the last part as a pun, and grin about it. Or maybe he was just grinning because he was Tony, and he’d thrown a tantrum (albeit an altruistic tantrum), and won.

Coulson didn’t leave with Fury, resuming tapping on the tablet again. “I’ll warn the nurses to expect you,” he informed them pleasantly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments, and subscriptions, and kudos all make me ridiculously giddy to post more. :3 Also, I'll be too busy to update for a few days, so I figured I'd add another chapter now.

Who would’ve guessed that, out of the five of them, Thor would be the one to possess the most natural predisposition for bedside vigils. Not that it was all waiting, literally, by Steve’s bedside over the next few days. Forewarned or not, the nurses who landed this position were made tough. They were probably born tough. God knew they had the guts and the glares to tell off _anyone_ who overstayed their welcome.

But none of the Avengers were the patient types. They were the get in, and get it done types. And they’d already done that.

Natasha and Clint, especially, went stir-crazy almost preemptively to being made towait, jogging back and forth from the gym facilities like toddlers high on Kool-Aid and Pixi Stix. Bruce mentally tagged them the ADHD Twins.

Tony made one visit to Steve, and stood there observing the scene dumbly, mouth opening and closing a few times without a word coming out, as if frozen mid-wisecrack database query. Then he muttered something decidedly uninspired about calling Pepper to tell her to find some red, white, and blue balloons and have them sent over ASAP. 

After that, Tony found a continuous string of _something_ to work on in the SHIELD lab facilities.

Bruce had joined him a few times, when he wasn’t busy working with the doctors for answers about Steve’s condition. But Tony was a professional _and_ hobbyist workaholic, and used to keeping company with none his own brilliant ego. Besides, he was still licking his wounds, Tony Stark style. Bruce knew it was true, no matter how flippantly he brushed aside Bruce’s concern.

So it was official. They’d all been trying to avoid it. Now that they’d demanded the privilege of staying close to their teammate, the victory was certainly nothing to enjoy. Bruce didn’t think any of them were really sure why they signed on for this. Except they did know. This was Steve. He’d have done the exact same thing for any one of them—only he’d have done it with more deliberation and compassion, and less directionless hyperactivity. 

But that was just it, the reason they’d stuck around when their natural instinct would have been to leave: this was about Steve. Steve, dwarfed in the medical bed, swamped by sheets, and attacked on all sides by I.V. lines and monitors. He was shivering, and susceptible, and it’d begun to strike home to Bruce—as he scanned the charts, x-rays, and blood samples, surveying Steve’s old-now-new-again physique with a doctor’s eye—just how much the serum had changed the life of one Steve Rogers. It was one thing knowing in theory that he’d once been a 90-pound weakling, volunteering himself as Erskine’s guinea pig. Seeing it for himself was another matter.

It was hard enough to sit there while Steve was unconscious, pulling air into congested lungs, fragile ribs expanding to make room for each careful breath. But when he was lucid, and blue eyes caught you unawares, tired one moment and then smiling at you faintly before drifting shut again—that’s when you decided it was time to go make an enemy out of a punching bag. Because Radner was still firmly off-limits.

Bruce didn’t even have that outlet. He had to cultivate his temper with all the self-control he’d learned to utilize like a barricade: never turning his back on The Other Guy, because it was dangerous to forget; he was always staring that urge down, squarely, to keep it in check. 

But Thor didn’t react the way the rest of them did. Bruce had noticed it before: the way Thor could change after the action was over, when all enemies are down and it was time to repair the damage done to friends. Thor took the deep breaths the rest of them were scared to pause for. He was steadier. More contemplative. Watchful and restive, yes, but not chafing at the bit. Bruce wanted to ask him where he’d practiced keeping vigils before. 

Sometimes Thor followed Clint and Natasha’s lead. But more often he took a seat next to Steve’s bed and allowed himself to just _be there_ , offering the gift of tranquil and undemanding company. They were all a little in awe of his fortitude.

Bruce was just glad one of them had a natural gift for it. It gave him time to adjust, to hone some optimism, or at least some conviction that they would find a solution. They would wring answers out of Radner one way or another, and those answers would be enough.

Most importantly, he knew Steve had to be going through hell. The wild twists and turns his life had taken would be enough to make most men cynical at best, and deeply embittered at worst. Following Thor’s example, insofar as he was able, was the least he could do. A simple show of solidarity seemed laughably inadequate, but it was what they had to give, and it was why they stayed, after all.

So it was that Bruce found himself taking a seat beside Thor, who acknowledged his arrival with dip of his chin, like a salute, and a welcoming, approving look.

They remained silent a moment, listening to the equipment and watching Steve.

“I think you’ve officially shown us all up,” Bruce commented, almost idly.

Thor’s surprise was open and honest. He understood the intent of the comment if not the precise idiom. “Every warrior deals with the injury of a close comrade in their own way. You have each been loyal to stay, if not present in this room, then present with him in spirit. I am certain the Captain understands.”

It didn’t really make it better, though. The patience and understanding of a man like Steve—or Thor—had a way of making you want to be _more_ , not less, even if they didn’t think the less of you for your shortcomings. 

“Of all of us, I should be the one making a difference,” Bruce murmured, mostly to himself. 

“You speak of your medical knowledge?” 

“I’m doing what I can. It’s obvious what the problem is—or at least what the _symptoms_ are—and what the easiest solution would be. But we don’t have the serum, and we don’t have Erskine, the doctor who created it. If we’re left with reproducing the serum as our only route… Well. It’s something that hasn’t, and isn’t, going to happen overnight.”

Thor nodded, considering. “Is there no way to reverse this by the same means Radner used to achieve it?”

“Radner didn’t leave us much to work with. Empty test tubes. Sketchy theories. Some basic medical equipment—but no magical life-sucking machine for us to dissect and reverse-engineer. It’s as if Radner actually conducted his experiment somewhere else, or he’d already packed up shop by the time we got there. He’s cocky about something, like he still thinks he has the upper hand. Coulson says all he’ll do is crow about it all being irreversible.”

“A villain would taunt thus, no matter the truth. He is full of what I believe you would call ‘BS.’” 

Bruce smiled a little.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said a strained voice from the bed.

Bruce stood, paced over, then shoved his hands in his pockets, appraising Steve’s heart rate and blood pressure instead of his face. “How you feeling, Cap?”

“Like I’ve already done this whole underdog thing.”

Standing next to Bruce, Thor frowned at the phrase.

“The weakling everyone cheers for, because the chances of him winning are astronomically unlikely,” Steve clarified. “It’s very American, to root for the underdog.” His lips quirked, and he looked down the length of his own body—at the flat plank of his chest, laying there looking about as well-defined with muscle as a two-by-four piece of plywood. He looked at it like it should’ve belonged to someone else. “Everybody wants to see him get Goliath in the end. The little guy.” He raised a hand to examine thin wrists, and slender, artist’s fingers, and released a sound that was probably meant to be a laugh. “I still can’t believe I was ever really this…pathetic.” Realization clarified. “That I _am_ this pathetic. I guess it’s never too late to be a failed experiment.”

“Please,” Thor said gravely, “do not speak of yourself in such a way.”

“Then what am I?”                                                                

“Wounded, honorably, as surely as if you were struck down in battle,” Thor replied, decisively.

They shared a long moment of eye contact that left Bruce feeling like an interloper. He recognized then how the two of them had connected since day one, united through everything from incomprehension over modern references, to the camaraderie of a soldier’s mindset, to their shared experiences as natural-born leaders.

The Avengers had all individually played Army of One, Thor and Steve included. But these two were the most comfortable as team players, however motley and prone to go lone wolf said teammates might be.

After the moment of warrior-understanding-telepathy was over, Steve looked just as exhausted and weak as before. Twin spots of color, high on gaunt cheeks, marked him as unquestionably still feverish. But he’d relaxed, and optimism was creeping back in. It was the return of that you-can’t-keep-a-good-man-down attitude that Steve exuded like a protective aura; a mantra made real by faith that good would always eventually triumph over evil, even if it wasn’t a clean or easy triumph.

“The rest of the team…” Steve began to inquire.

“Nearby,” Bruce answered. “They’re extremely busy not worrying.”

“Unsuccessfully.” Thor sighed, like an exasperated but sympathetic parent. “They do not know how to conduct themselves in front of you without causing further embarrassment to you.”

“Well haven’t you two been busy playing psychologist.” It was Tony, stepping through the door with a posture carefully arranged into nonchalance. He’d clearly learned his lesson and prepared some quips ahead of time. “Hey, Cap. You know they’re just talking about Thing One and Thing Two, right?” A glanced at Thor and Steve’s blank expressions, and he amended, “ _Obviously_ , Natasha and Clint are feeling awkward about all this. Me? I have no problems embarrassing anyone.”

Including _himself_ , evidently, though none of them said it aloud. Maybe they’d all come to recognize that Tony’s unique brand of compassion could sometimes come across on the surface as something a little less... charitable. The trick was to separate those moments of compassion from the times when he was actually _being_ a complete and utter jerk.

Steve apparently didn’t feel up to facing Tony’s sense of humor while lying flat on his back, and started to pry himself upright by digging into the mattress with his elbows.

Before Bruce could react, Tony stepped past him to commandeer the remote that adjusted the bed. “Hopeless Luddite,” he griped, easing it up from a recline into a semi-upright position. “You can fluff your own pillow. Or get Thor to do it for you.”

Steve leaned back, raised an eyebrow, and accepted the remote, along with the clipped instructions Tony magnanimously gave him for adjusting the bed himself. When Steve broke out into a bout of harsh coughing halfway through said instructions, turning his face away into the crook of his arm, Bruce was impressed that Tony didn’t even grimace.

“Here,” Tony said instead, after the bout was over, picking up a glass of water off the bedside table. Small as the gestures of caring would’ve been coming from most people, it was definitely one of Tony’s not-a-jerk moments, and he was trying to gloss over the fact by sounding impatient.

Steve had both arms wrapped around his chest, shoulders curled inward. He looked up at Tony’s offer, accepting with a hand that visibly shook.

Steve handed the glass back. “Thanks.”

Tony shrugged modestly. “It was a hardship, handing you that. But you’re welcome.”

Now that he’d proven so impeccably adequate, Bruce decided that it was Tony’s turn to practice his bedside manners.

Thor was surprisingly good a picking up on subtle undercurrents. He got the unspoken memo, excusing himself along with Bruce.

The glance that Tony sent in their direction wasn’t really _panicked_ , just mildly alarmed as he tripped over a few fruitless, half-baked counter-excuses to get them to stay.

As Bruce left, he heard Steve murmur: “It’s fine, Tony. I don’t need a babysitter.”

A chair scraped. Tony scoffed: “Good. Because I don’t do babysitting. Now. Brace yourself for news of Stark Industries’ next earth-shattering piece of innovation…”

Thor smiled at Bruce as they proceeded down the hall, trying to remember whether they actually had anywhere important to be. “You have the mind of a strategist.” 

“I’ll accept that once I’ve cornered Thing One and Thing Two.”

 

* * *

 

It had been seven days since Steve’s life had been turned upside down. _Again_.

He’d had far too much time to think during those seven days. Every morning there was a whole gamut of legitimate responses to his situation spread out in front of him, waiting for him to choose. It was all there, the whole range of emotional reactions, from self-pity, to anger, to apathy. Usually by the end of the day he’d found his way back to optimism, albeit sometimes with a few stops along the way. He knew he was still Captain America, at his core—a _good man_ , as Erskine put it—no matter what happened. Steve Rogers was still Steve Rogers, the man who had _become_ Captain America because of what he already was.

Hopeless bully-fighter, bully-fodder, never-a-jock, 4F’d record-holder, Steve Rogers. That was him, right where he left off.

But contrary to what anyone might assume, he could be realistic about odds. He could face an ending that wasn’t happy and accept it. His transformation—his “downgrade”—could be temporary, or it could be permanent, and he needed to be ready for either eventuality.

“How do you feel today, Captain?”

Steve was embarrassed to realize he’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t heard the nurse enter. Nurse Hales. Chloe Hales. She looked athletic, and maybe just little gawky compared to some of the more petite nurses, but she wasn’t a klutz. Brunette. Pretty, in a straight-forward, strong-jawed way. The classic red lipstick she always wore reminded him of what he still thought of as “his” century. It reminded him of Peggy.

“I’m fine,” he hastened to say, because he’d taken too long to respond to a simple question. Then, because the response felt too clipped, he elaborated, “I’m fine, thank you, ma’am.” 

She’d already told him he didn’t have to call her that, but she didn’t correct him this time. She seemed to sense the comfort formality brought him.

There was a security in formality, in military precision, and dusty etiquette. But his own reflexes were also beginning to irritate him. He’d been beginning to adapt to a new way of living, and talking, and thinking. But it was like he’d been reverted mind and body back to who he was, somehow having a hard time dragging his new habits along into his old body. It was the opposite of growing pains.

It might have been self-indulgent not to force himself to keep adapting regardless of the setback, but he couldn’t help but feel like he deserved a few considerations. Some margin for error: for calling people “ma’am,” and pining for familiar faces—for friends like Bucky, and Erskine, and Peggy, who had known him and accepted him for who he was before the serum. 

But apparently he’d get no argument about it from Nurse Hales. She smiled at him, not condescendingly, thank God, but thoughtfully, with sympathy that didn’t dismiss him as an invalid.

“You know, you’re allowed to _not_ be okay,” she said, writing something on his chart. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re the most cooperative patient I’ve ever encountered, and it’s appreciated. Optimism’s a good thing. But you’re allowed to feel lousy, too.”

Steve huffed a mixture of a laugh and sigh. “Yeah?”

She kept writing on the chart. “Absolutely.”

He watched her write. One way or another, he found himself confiding, “My mom died from pneumonia right after I graduated high school.”

Immediately he was at a loss for why he brought up such a personal part of his history, and he regretted it. The last thing he needed was another reason to be pitied. It was only that he’d been thinking about it a lot lately. He could feel the vice of congestion tightening around his lungs, a weight on his chest like a malicious hand pressing down to constrict his breathing, and he remembered how much pain she’d been in. Pain she’d never acknowledged with words. He’d held her hand, and she’d squeezed back reassuringly during coughing fits. He remembered her as a dichotomy of gentleness and strength, with maybe more strong-willed Irish stubbornness mixed in than loving memory would admit. She’d never backed down from a matter of conscience, and she’d had a special lack of patience for bullies, too.

He would never stop missing her, no matter how many decades—or centuries—he lived to see.

Hales spared him any awkward condolences, her smile simply turning sad for a moment before it hardened with a will. “That is _not_ going to be the case with you.” She could’ve just added “soldier,” and made it a command. 

Steve nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” And this time the formality was more deliberate, and grateful, because orders had held his world together in the past, and maybe they would do the same for his future. He’d gone maverick a few times, sure, but in the end having a concrete goal was what he was used to.

She hung the clipboard at the foot of his bed and left with a satisfied expression.

As the day dragged on, Steve decided that lousy was an accurate description for how he felt. The conversation with Hales made it easier to be honest with himself, though, which somehow made feeling lousy a little more tolerable. He didn’t need the doctors to tell him they were concerned with his downhill progress at beating this thing. “This thing” having become a full-on case of pneumonia.

His ambition in the long-run might’ve still obviously been to reverse Radner’s handiwork, but right then he mostly just wanted to be able to breathe deeply again without setting off a coughing fit.

He was leaning forward, doing the increasingly familiar hack-up-a-lung routine, when the team started shuffling in by turns to inform him that they were on their way to a pre-mission briefing. They were almost shamefaced, apology latent even in Tony’s voice. But he could tell they were all also glad to have something active to do, and he couldn’t blame them.

When they asked him how he was, he suppressed a cough, lied without hesitation, and offered a two-fingered mock salute. They needed their heads in the game, and he didn’t want the spotlight shone on his misery, in any case. So he’d be “lousy” when Hales asked, but “just fine” when it came to Thor, or Bruce, or any of the rest of them.

After they’d left, he did indulge in a minute or two of feeling sorry for himself.  But even that luxury was sidelined by the more pressing need to know what they’d be going up against. None of them had been able to tell him, because they themselves hadn’t been told any specifics yet.

Steve stared for a while at the flat screen TV on the wall opposite his bed. It was foreign and somehow still improbable compared to what he was used to. He knew they’d streamlined technology—but _still_ , the color, and the clarity, and the quantity of channels to choose from were all astonishing. TV as he remembered it was something too extravagant not to be eclipsed by the war, and now it was treated like a necessity of life, or a civil right.

But it did have its uses, he’d admit, and he didn’t even have a particular grudge against it, contrary to whatever Tony might’ve thought. Clint had been his enthusiastic guide on the TV learning curve, and thanks to him Steve was able to easily bring the screen to life and find a news channel.

He fell asleep in the middle of a piece about a fund-raising marathon for an animal shelter. Whatever breaking news had Fury summoning the Avengers, it was still in the process of breaking and hadn’t even reached the media yet.

The need to know continued to nag at him, but before the day was over he was burning up, and there was a fresh frenzy of people coming in and out, and someone had turned the TV off—and he couldn’t order his words comprehensibly enough to make anyone understand his urgency.

They were still _his team_ , out there, and it was imperative that he know what was happening to them. That’s who he was: the one with the big picture, the one with the plan.

He lay there and reminded himself that the Avengers weren’t an all or nothing deal, contrary to Fury’s plans for them to operate like a single unit, and contrary to how they’d all begun to catch the vision. They were a group of capable individuals, each dangerous in their own right.

As he drifted in and out, he reassured himself that he wasn’t irreplaceable, and that it was a _good_ thing.

 

* * *

 

Steve woke to dim lighting, heralding the fact that it was night.

His lungs didn’t feel worse, but neither did they feel better. He watched a bag of _something_ that was dripping into his I.V. line, snaking down into his veins. He shivered.

“Are you cold?” Coulson’s voice was perfectly pitched for a sick room, quiet and considerate.

Steve was still caught off-guard, confused to see him there, sitting composedly in a suit, a folder on his lap.

“Work?” Steve managed to ask in a gravelly voice, forgetting Coulson had already asked him a question first.

“Yes. It’s nothing pressing, though. You could call it homework.” He smiled the sort of quick and handy smile that would’ve looked disingenuous on anyone else, but that on him was just…Coulson _._ A simple expression of reassurance from the guy who was used to cleaning up other people’s messes without breaking a sweat, or losing his buoyant outlook.“Please, don’t exert yourself,” he added, when Steve began to open his mouth again. “I’m not here officially, or with any business that concerns you, and you need to rest.” He didn’t repeat his first question—just leaned forward to snag a blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it neatly over Steve.

Steve had experienced plenty of the surreal in his lifetime, but there and then he felt like he’d reached a whole new level of bizarre as he watched Agent Phil Coulson smooth out the blanket, giving the edge a crisp tug before sitting back again.

“Why I am I here?” Coulson spoke on Steve’s behalf, continuing to casually peruse the sadly sluggish contents of Steve’s brain with off-handed sagacity. “To check on you, of course. I’m afraid I couldn’t get away earlier, due to several successfully averted catastrophes. Just another long day at the office.” The handy smile was flashed again, and he interrupted Steve mid-unvoiced-question. “No, don’t worry, Captain. It’s late, but I don’t require too much sleep. I’m paid to be a morning _and_ a night person.” His expression clouded. “You, on the other hand, look exhausted.”

Steve was. Exhausted, and stir-crazy, with blood that froze, boiled, and then froze again, and a chest that ached and pulled at him even when he wasn’t trying to breathe or talk. “Team,” he croaked at Coulson, insistently.

“The mission was a complete success. Only a few nicks and bruises.”

Steve narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“But…well. Perhaps you should see for yourself. They keep coming back to the same feed.” Coulson found the remote and turned the TV on, lowering the volume and watching with lips pressed thinly together. It was a look of disapproval reserved for difficult children and difficult, childish superheroes. In other words, on both counts, a look crafted especially for Tony Stark.

There was about ten seconds of actual reporting on the mission, which had apparently involved Skrulls, or Skrull-like imposters, or some enemy that had simply turned out not to be Skrulls when Skrulls had been expected. Steve was fairly sure his confusion over the details had as much to do with a rushed and sloppy journalism as it had to do with his feverish brain.

Then Steve’s eye caught on the headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen: “The New, Unfriendly Face of the Avengers,” as the reporter started narrating a clip of the team being mobbed by a flock of question- and microphone-wielding reporters. 

 _“…and with Captain America conspicuous in his absence,”_ the voice droned on, _“reporters were met by hostility while requesting statements from the Avengers…”_

On screen, Thor, at least, was quiet about pushing past the media. So was Natasha, blank-faced and holding a hand to a shallow gash on her side, squarely giving the reporters the cold shoulder with a terse, “No comment.” Bruce, presumably, was somewhere finding clothes.

Tony was the only one who made any attempt at smiling and handling the PR end of things, but he did so going by the Stark handbook of clever one-liners, instead of by the SHIELD Manual for Proper Public Conduct.

Of a block of historical buildings—apparently all but reduced to rubble during the conflict—Tony commented on the potential they’d just created for “stimulating the economy by creating jobs.”

“All residents were successfully evacuated from the debris,” Coulson reassured Steve as an aside.

Steve was glad to hear it. He wasn’t so glad to hear Tony continue, in response to a reporter’s further prodding on the topic: “What do I have to say about the damage _we’re_ responsible for? Well, quite a few things, actually. For one thing, we’re the good guys. We were kind of busy _saving lives_. It’s a distracting but necessary priority. But, you know, you raise an excellent point about damage control. Next time, we’ll implore the kindly-intentioned yet manically-destructive villains to step outside city limits _before_ we start trying to kill each other. Maybe a deserted field of some kind can be prearranged for our civilized little death-matches. Doable, yes? Great. You get on that.” Tony’s visor closed as he rocketed away from further questions.

Steve could’ve groaned. In fact, a small sound of despair did escape him before his attention was diverted by the last segment of the clip, which showed Clint, cut off by a reporter from his own attempt to exit and follow Natasha. Bad idea. It was all blurred out, and beeped over—the gesture Clint made, along with the words that accompanied it—but Steve got the idea.

“Did he just…”

“I’m afraid so.” Coulson turned off the TV. “Don’t worry, Captain. It’s a hiccup, and no matter what we do it’ll generate some bad press. They’ve all got an appointment to get an earful from Director Fury. But tomorrow we’ll release a statement to soothe any ruffled feathers, and put the Avengers’ reputation back on better footing.”

Steve ran a hand over the once familiar, now foreign plains of his newly thin face. “I’m beginning to think that if I stay like this I might still have a purpose on this earth.” The joke didn’t come quite out as flippantly as it should have.

Coulson looked at him in candid surprise. “Was there ever a question of that, Captain?”

Steve looked back with equally candid surprise. He realized then that Coulson, much like Thor, didn’t seem at all taken aback by his reduced state. He still called him “Captain” with just an edge of something like awe behind his respect, addressing him like the same hero returned from the grave, with an autograph to be coveted.

Steve had never developed Tony’s flair for accepting accolades, and probably never would. It made him squirm inside with a sensation of being dishonest—as if he owed them a full disclaimer of himself. “Fans” venerated icons and ideas. Ideas like Captain America. The power of ideas was something he understood and supported. But accolades meant for Captain America had to also fall on Steve Rogers—mortal, with flaws—which never seemed quite right.

Coulson, however, had seen both sides of the coin, witnessing all of the Avengers on stage and behind the scenes. And he still respected him: with or without the serum, with or without the costume.

He wished he had the words to express to Coulson what that meant.

Coulson flipped open the file on his lap. “Please, don’t mind me. You really do need some rest. I thought I might catch up on some of this, but if you’d prefer some privacy….”

“No—no, I’d appreciate the company.”

Coulson nodded, matter-of-fact, and settled in. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Of course I know who you are, _Mr. Stark_ ,” hissed an authoritative voice, “and I couldn’t be moved to show you any partiality if you claimed to be the Angel Gabriel.”

“But what if I really _was_ the Angel Gabriel? How about then?” a muffled voice insists, with actual hope. Hope of flirtation. So much for masquerading as the Angel Gabriel.

Steve turned his head on the pillow. Nurse Hales had her back to him, leaning into the door with her left hip and shoulder to bar it from being opened more than a crack.

“I’m not. The Angel Gabriel,” Tony continued, the muffled voice on the other side of the door. “Obviously. Because angels are always pale, blond Norwegians in all the pictures. But, more impressively dark and handsome, there’s _me_ …”

Sensing Tony’s opening for courtship was about to be summarily and literally slammed in his face, Steve tried to get Hales’ attention. Instead of anything intelligible, however, his unused vocal cords only permit a dry, rasping noise instead of fully formed words.

It caught her attention, which was all the opening that Tony needed.

“Hello, Sunshine. Got you something.” Only Tony could make gift-giving look like a reason to gloat menacingly, and Steve nearly went cross-eyed trying to focus on the stuffed animal being waved in front of his face.

“A teddy bear?” he rasped, even as he confirmed it with his own eyes. A bear, with a blue sweater, and a miniature, white “Get Well Beary Soon” balloon held in one paw.

Unoffended by the lack of a positive reception, Tony deposited it in Steve’s lap. “Welcome.”

Hales’ sigh drew Steve’s attention back to the door, and there was Natasha, with the other usual suspects trailing in behind her. Thor, then Bruce, then Clint.

Good. Steve had been hoping not to have to repeat himself more than once.

“Five minutes, people.” Hales didn’t stay to debate her edict. The door clicked shut behind her.

Steve raised the bed and pulled himself upright with dignity, despite the quiver of unused muscles. He kept reaching for physical strength that wasn’t there. There had never been anything weak about his will, however.

Before Tony could begin the next shtick in his endless queue of shticks, Steve stated unequivocally, “I watched the news last night.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Tony exclaimed vaguely, as if he got where Steve was going, but hadn’t given up hope of getting out of it by playing ignorant.

The rest of them just let their hope be dimmed. Clint actually looked at his feet.

“Steve, are you—” Natasha began.

“I’m fine.” He wasn’t, he really wasn’t. He was sick of lying around, and too sick to do anything _except_ lie around. But at the moment that continued to be beside the point.

It felt more than a little ridiculous—like a transparently idle threat—to cross his arms. However, nobody laughed.

“You’re better than that.” When Tony tried to interrupt with a joke, Steve spoke over him, “You’re all better then that…that _childish_ performance. What was that? You’re the Avengers.”

“Cap,” Clint’s usual flirtation with private amusement was absent from his eyes, “things just got a little out of hand. It was a busy part of town—lots of reporters. Even more than usual, and even more up in arms than usual.” He glanced up, slightly furtive, like a puppy expecting a smack down. “I mean. We are the Avengers.” He nods to the rest of the team beside him, then looked back to Steve. “Just not the complete set this time. And I guess we didn’t rally very well.”

The more-than-implication should’ve been gratifying. It _was_ gratifying. The six of them hadn’t meshed—hadn’t looked like they possibly could mesh—until suddenly they _had_. And it was nice to feel like a necessary part of the equation.

Tony waved a hand, already fed up with repentance. “The media’s always getting their collective undies in a bunch. It’s their job to have frequent tizzies.” His smile wilted just a fraction under Steve’s look. “Which doesn’t make antagonizing them right, exactly… But it still makes it fun.” He shrugged. “Besides, what’s a team to do without their golden boy along to smile nice for the cameras? Seriously, face it, Captain Conscience. We’re just that rude without you.”

Steve had the oddest sensation of both having been insulted (par for the course, in conversations with Tony), and handed possibly one of the best compliments of his life.

“No, you’re not,” he retorted reflexively, because even if it was a genuine compliment, Tony was exaggerating like usual, making excuses without really requiring any excuses to feel perfectly guiltless.

“Yes, actually, we _are_ ,” Tony insisted, obstinately. “Very rude. Hopelessly rude.” Nobody contradicted him.

“We never really thought…” Natasha trailed off, beginning again: “I mean, we don’t _usually_ talk to the reporters.”

Clint nodded. “Yeah. Usually they’re too busy talking to you to try barring our way.”

“We have clearly come to rely on you for that duty,” Thor stated gravely, frowning.

“Or at least come to rely on you to offset Tony’s less-than-reliable _charisma_ ,” Bruce added dryly.

“I…don’t resent that statement,” Tony mused thoughtfully.

Steve sighed, resting his head back against the pillow. Frustration was too tiring to maintain, and he was beginning to get an idea of how things had unraveled. He knew just how rabid the media could get, and he didn’t have the big picture of how things had gone down. The bottom line was that he hadn’t been there. He had no way to know just how much an overreaction—or how valid—his team’s response to the media had been. (After all, the reporters were the ones selecting and editing the clips they used.)

There was a rap of knuckles on the door, and then Coulson appeared looking as magically well-rested as usual. But unlike the night before, he was clearly here officially this time.

After he’d surveyed the scene, he didn’t actually say anything out loud, only opened the door to invite them to exit the room ASAP. But his expression clearly said, “Look what you’ve done _now_.” The “Are you ashamed of yourselves?” was implicit, rhetorically demanding a “Yes.”

Steve should’ve probably felt belittled, to have the argument confiscated from him like it was naptime. Instead, he felt more like chuckling, because only Coulson can turn “You Upset Captain America” into “Stop Breaking the Ten Commandments.”

On their way out, the team murmured, “Feel better, Cap,” and, “Get some rest, Steve,” and, “See ya, Cap,” and, “You gotta stop letting these microscopic organisms kick your butt, Steve.” Thor just let a hand rest on Steve’s leg briefly, like a farewell blessing and an apology wrapped into one.

Steve closed his eyes, concentrating on not letting microscopic organisms kick his butt.

 

* * *

 

“You’re kidding. He was fine yesterday.”

Bruce marshaled his patience. He’d already filled the rest of the team in on the doctor’s report. Tony, he’d had to hunt down.

“No, Tony. He wasn’t.”

Tony still didn’t look up from the computer screen. “Right…right. I didn’t mean _fine_ , fine. But he was...” Tony paused, “…in full nagging order.”

Bruce ignored the bait. He was learning Tony’s tactics. Like the tactic where he misdirected with insensitive bluntness. Bruce was more interested in the way Tony was studiously not reading something on the screen in front of him.

“It’s bad, Tony.”

“Of course it’s _bad_ ,” Tony snipped. “He’s a shrimp. He’s shrimpier than a shrimp. Like a particularly runty and unfed shrimp. To look at him is to want to run out and buy the fattiest food money can buy, and force him to eat life-saving quantities of it. I’ve seen more corporeal supermodels. He makes toothpicks and rails look positively obese—”

“—I get it, Tony. And, yeah, he’s too thin. The docs are worried about the strain all of this is placing on his heart.”

Tony keeps staring fixedly at the screen. “The pneumonia should be getting better by now. Why isn’t it?”

“They’re running more tests, and trying some different antibiotics. It’s not viral, thank God. But the bare facts are he’s never been the picture of health. Wasn’t, before the serum, that is. Quite apart from his family’s problems with diabetes and cancer, he has a personal history riddled with chronic colds, fatigue, high blood pressure, and heart trouble. If something’s making the rounds, he _gets_ it. None of that’s even taking his asthma into consideration, and the extra complications that presents when it comes to lung problems. And…” 

“ _And_?”

“It looks like he’s developed pleurisy.”

“Terrific.” Despite the acerbic bite to his tone, there was a telling flatness beneath that didn’t camouflage emotion as well as Tony obviously liked to think that it did.

“As we speak, they’re doing a pleural tap to remove some fluid from the cavity, both for clinical analysis and to make him a bit more comfortable. Depending on how that goes a chest tube may or may not be in order if things don’t improve or—“

Tony’s fist slammed down hard on the table, and Bruce fell silent, placidly listening to him curse. He let Tony do enough swearing for two.

“It’s not fair,” Tony finished at last, petulantly putting forth the distilled essence of his frustration. “It shouldn’t be possible to just _steal_ Captain America’s health. Tell me how guys like Radner get away with this stuff.”

Bruce didn’t know the answer to that cosmologically, or scientifically. He sighed. “You want to see him?”

“God, no,” Tony snapped. The muscles along his jaw twitched, and he changed his mind, going for a light tone. “I mean yeah, why not. Of course. He’d appreciate that, right? Some Stark charm during a moment of crisis.”

Far be it from Bruce to confirm that idea. “Just…don’t be yourself—quite so loudly.”

“Steve’s used to it.”

“The medical staff aren’t.”

 

* * *

 

Tony stepped into the room, and decided he had the worst timing on earth—because he was just in time to see the small hole in Steve’s back, just above the rib on the left side of his spine, where the catheter line had clearly just been removed. He knew in theory what a thoracentesis procedure entailed. (He was pretty good at researching and retaining Important Information, thank you very much.) Maybe that was why it made him pause, with a grimace at the sight. A sickly smear of mustered orange highlighted the site where they prepped the skin with iodine.

Steve sat on a chair, arms elevated on the bed, while a nurse secured gauze over the incision mark. But Tony had already seen it, and his brain was stuck in an internal mantra of _“TMI, TMI, TMI…”_ like an order to back up and erase the footage from his mind’s eye.

Which was a ridiculous reaction, coming from a man with a permanent _hole_ in his _chest_. Pepper would've never let him live it down if she'd seen his reaction, considering his blasé handling of her own _grossgrossgross_ reaction to helping replace the first arc reactor prototype.

Tony stood by while the nurse fussed over Steve. Steve wasn't embarrassed or awkward about accepting it, which alone was enough to raise a red flag. While he might be doing his best to understand the 21st century, Steve was incurably chivalrous when it came to women, and generally women didn't seem to mind—even the ninja-assassin ones, like Natasha—which was just _annoying_. Because Tony got suspicious looks where Steve received fond smiles. Considering his reputation, Tony supposed he deserved it. A little.

But, suffice it say, Steve opened doors, carried groceries for old ladies, and pulled out chairs for women like a proper gentleman—and he got away with it like the well-meaning, out-of-touch knight-errant he was. The jerk. It was enough to make the rest of them look bad. (To quote Natasha, “ _Someone_ 's mother raised them to respect women;” and to quote Tony's reaction, “Seriously? Because, nowadays, I'm pretty sure the correct response to that kind of behavior is just 'Get away from me, you chauvinist pig.'” For which he'd received an eye roll that probably meant, “Get away from me, you chauvinist pig.” Fondly intended, obviously.)

So Steve just lying there, accepting fussing without so much as offering one of his should-be-patented, flustered “thank you, ma'am”'s, meant he was pretty bad off. Or at least familiar enough with the routine to be resigned to the fussing.

He _looked_ pretty bad upon closer inspection. Tony ignored the warning glare from the nurse as she passed him on her way out of the room, because, _really_? He was looking as close to being overcome by concern as he came, and if that wasn't enough to inform the general public that he wasn't going to do something to (deliberately) cause Captain America distress, then there was no point in swearing on a Bible.

Steve had his eyes closed, lips parted to permit tortured sounding breathing—in, out, in, out. It was rhythmic and constant, but about as nice to listen to as...as someone with pneumonia trying to force air into clogged lungs. Tony couldn't help another grimace. This was why he didn't do sick rooms. There was never anything to say, just a lot of standing around being useless. It wasn't that he ever really ran out of things to say. Pertinent things, even. But most of said pertinent ideas for conversation sounded rude, even to him.

If Steve knew all the comments being caught in his brain-to-mouth filter (which did exist, contrary to popular belief), even he would have to have been impressed by Tony's restraint.

“No teddy bear?”

Tony started. Steve hadn't opened his eyes. “Nope. Just me.”

“Mmm.”

“Try to sound a little enthusiastic. I interrupted a game of Tetris to visit you.” Which was a lie, but a good one.

“Impossible to get back into the swing of that, if you pause in the middle of a level.”

“Exactly.” Tony frowned. “Wait? You know—”

“Clint taught Thor. Thor taught me.” Steve's voice kept catching breathlessly on words, caught between a cough and a wheeze.

“You know, it's oddly unnerving talking to someone who refuses to open his eyes.”

Steve blinked his eyes open like he'd forgotten he had them closed, squinting up at him from his semi-reclined position. The relaxed expression on his face complicated into concern over whatever he saw on Tony's face. “I've been sick a lot,” he said, apropos of nothing. “You know, before. Mostly when I was younger. But I was used to it—I always get over it. I'm not _fragile_.”

Everything about Steve currently belied that statement. Everything about him but the voice, which hadn't changed at all. Tony had been annoyed by that voice. With it he could lecture, and deliver painfully wholesome speeches, and wax more eloquent about his country than a lovestruck poet. And you believed every word. It was probably impossible not to. Like a universal law. Like gravity.

“I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to be the one offering reassurances.”

Steve laughed, or tried to, and wound up curled over and coughing.

Tony reflexively reached out to pat Steve's back. But while the act itself might have been reflexive, as soon as he caught himself in the act he realized that soothing pats really weren't his area of expertise.

And...dear God, he could feel Steve's spine and ribs far too perfectly through the papery material of the hospital top.

“Food,” he said in a fit of inspiration, rubbing a hand up and down Steve's back lightly, and maybe getting the hang of it, just a little. “Lots of it.”

Steve makes a noise caught somewhere between an interrupted splutter of question, and another cough.

“As soon as you're feeling better, I'm busting you out of this place if I have to kidnap you. And we'll pig out on the best food the city has to offer.”

“Mmm.”

“Don't keeping 'mmm'ing me. You're going to do your fair share of pigging out.”

“Wasn't objecting.”

“Good, because you're freaking skinnier than...than anyone has a right to be.”

“Not by choice,” Steve said with a touch of hurt. “Just...never seem to be able to get the weight to stay. Always getting sick, and then nothing tastes good. Or I can't keep it down.”

“Ginger Ale. I'll have Pepper order it in bulk. Works like a charm on an upset stomach.”

“Why're you being so nice?”

“Shut up, you. I'm always nice.” It as probably the back rub making him suspicious, but Tony was beginning to feel kind of proud of the flawless, rhythmic circular motion he had going.

“I'm not dying.” Steve sounded amused. Possibly at Tony.

It struck Tony as an extremely not amusing statement. Possibly due to an inexplicable surge of caring that made the word “dying” hurt like a dull pain in his chest. Heartburn wasn't out of the question, though.

“Well, good,” he covered his reaction with his favorite attitude, flippancy. “That's good. Because, you know, the rest of us... We really are just that rude without you, Cap. So you'd be spending eternity rolling over in your grave while we slowly turned all of humanity against us by our sheer inability to flirt with the media.”

“I don't flirt,” Steve objected, voice rendered rather un-Steve-like by sleepiness and the way his head hung forward, muffled by his own chest. “But, thanks. I think.”

As Steve continued to wilt, Tony wondered if he might be on the verge up putting Captain America to sleep with a back rub. That had to come with boasting rights of some kind.

But Steve kept himself more or less upright, listing, but not toppling just yet.

Part of Tony’s brain told him to shut up and let the moment exist without his aid. Like the rest of him had ever listened to that itty bitty, suspiciously Pepper-like voice. “I suppose this is the touching moment where I say something sentimental. Like, maybe confess I always wanted a little brother, and you seem like a likely candidate for adoption. I could add something really touching, about a lonely childhood with no siblings…”

“You really are in love with the sound of your own voice, aren’t you?” Steve interrupted drowsily. “And I’m older than you, by the way. Give or take a few decades.”

“Semantics,” Tony waved it off. “But, actually, I just meant ‘little’ as in ‘puny,’ anyway. Perfect kid brother material.”

“So you did always want one?”

Trust Steve, sick and half asleep, to still not miss out on an opportunity to psychoanalyze.

“Obviously. From an early age, I was never one to turn down a good test subject. A baby brother would’ve been loads of fun.”

“I always wanted an older brother,” Steve mumbled, as if he hadn’t even heard Tony’s attempt to shock him—or as if Tony had completely lost his ability to do so. “I mean, Bucky was a great friend. Really great. So were the rest of the Commandos. But brothers are blood. You know? Forever, no matter what.”

“Well, yeah. It only makes sense to try out the craziness in your own gene pool before you start borrowing from God-knows-where. Look how well it worked out for Thor’s folks.” Calling them “Thor’s folks” was probably committing several kinds of sacrilege. He’d just trust to Captain America’s discretion to keep him from a life sentence on some Asgardian penal colony or prison planet. “But, still,” he continued, “family’s what you make it, right?”

“I’m not going to be your new guinea pig.”

Steve sounded amused—again—making Tony feel an inexplicable glow of satisfaction. Which was just weird, considering he hadn’t exerted himself to any acts of particular genius yet. Sparkling dialogue came free of charge; part of the natural gift of his presence.

“Perish the thought,” Tony protested airily. “A few noogies, the ubiquitous ridicule and bullying, ditching you as a nuisance and an embarrassment whenever I want to play with the _cool_ kids…” On a particularly helpful whim, Tony transplanted one of the pillows behind Steve into Steve’s lap, beneath his gradually drooping head. “Sounds like the beginning of something brilliant, right?” he prodded.

“You’re forgetting the part of the equation where little brothers are pests right back.”

“Notorious pests, I hear,” Tony agreed, though he was pretty sure Steve would’ve made more of the goody-two-shoes/guess-who-mommy-loves-best type (not through idle boasting, but through _being_ ), rather than a classically in-your-face pest.

“I hate to break it to you, Cap,” Tony sighed pointedly, “but you’ve been an arrogant, whiny, grade A+ pain in the butt since day one.”

“You too.”

“See? We’re practically long-lost twins.”

“Right.”

“Just fraternal, you know. The looks might’ve gotten dished out a little lopsidedly. And obviously we’re not bonded with invisible bonds of brotherly caring…ness. Because, I’m telling you, I didn’t feel _a thing_ back when you got hit by that lamppost-wielding blue-ish, blob-ish…lizard thing. Not even feel a twinge through the sympathetic, telepathic connection we should probably share.” That’s because he’d been too busy dive-bombing said blue-ish blob-ish lizard, and there hadn’t been room for anything but unexpectedly heady rage.

Steve was definitely falling asleep, like Tony’s insults were the lullaby he’d been waiting for. Tony paused, hand resting between boney shoulder blades. “This is really awkward,” he muttered to the universe, because this was not how he’d pictured this conversation ending. Bonds of sympathy. Kid brothers. Back rubs.

“No it’s not,” Steve countered, drowsier still. His head rested on the pillow, face towards Tony, eyes closed. How he managed to sound sleepy and authoritative at once was beyond Tony.

So Tony just blinked, and shrugged. “Okay. If the sick guy says so.”

Steve’s eyes opened to slits. “Back hurts. Aches.”

Well. Like anyone could resist _that_ plea, and retain their humanity.

Careful to continue avoiding the square of gauze, Tony resumed a steady motion, alternating using palm and the tips of his fingers, until finally, Steve was snore-wheezing softly at him.

Despite the fact that Steve had fallen asleep in the position, Tony couldn’t believe that leaning forward like that was going to be helpful to his spine or diaphragm in the long run. So he eased Steve back against the bed, straightening and tugging the pooled blankets up to cover his shoulders.

And maybe he smirked, just at little, at the nurse’s look of surprise when she returned to find her patient peacefully asleep. If she wasn’t duly impressed with his handiwork, then _Tony_ was.

Okay. So maybe he smirked a whole lot, before he ambled out, flexing cramped fingers and wrists.

 

***

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Steve began to improve. It just took days of fever, tests, worry, and further vigil to get there.

It was still painful to sit there and watch him struggling to breathe even with the help of an oxygen mask. But, increasingly, he looked less like a man actually near to dying, and more like a man only near to figuratively dying of _boredom_. He listened politely and attentively while the doctors ran over health plans—prescribing medications for his heart, and his asthma, and discussing nutritional guides to help him gain weight.

Steve nodded, and asked questions, and kept himself awake through most of those fact-heavy conversations. And most of the time he didn’t give the nurses a hard time about wearing the oxygen mask (despite the claustrophobic look in his eyes and the way his hand continually strayed towards it with the urge to pluck it away). He didn’t gripe about having to lie there day in and day out, or pester the doctors for news on when he could leave.

Most of the time, he hardly seemed as hard struck by the change as he certainly had to be. But they could all see the tension in what he carefully _didn’t_ say.

Thankfully, Bruce saw that the rest of the team was finding their balance, and finding their own ways to be useful. It was like a chewing out from Steve—righteously refuted (by Tony), duly merited (by a hang-dog Clint), or a accepted as a bit of both (by the rest of them)—had acted as a switch flipped in their collective brains, reassuring them that Steve was neither made of glass, nor fundamentally changed. 

Bruce knew he couldn’t take credit for it, despite his gentle prodding, but it still made him strangely proud, and not a little fond. Fond, of the way the way they each had their own way of dealing with things.

Natasha brought books—ranging from _The Art of War_ , to a do-it-yourself on windowsill herb gardening, to novels by classic authors like Dostoevsky and Tolkien—and sat there and read to Steve, or silently to herself, toeing off her shoes and sitting cross-legged in her chair. She brought a miniature bonsai tree in a red pot, keeping it watered and trimmed with military precision. When the last of the hothouse flowers wilted and were thrown out, and the bonsai continued to thrive, she been subtly smug for the rest of the day.

Clint lounged about, sometimes accompanying her, sometimes on his own. He tipped his chair back at a gravity-defying angle, and fidgeted with Steve’s empty water glass, turning it around in his hands like Bruce had seen him inspect arrows. Or sometimes he brought small stacks of paper, eventually creating a veritable zoo’s worth of origami animals to line up on the bedside table, and then going on to assemble a fleet of studiously-crafted paper airplanes to throw at the wall in a volley that always hit its intended mark. 

And when Coulson came to confiscate the now much-crumpled-and-abused report papers from an unrepentant Clint, maybe he hadn’t been _quite_ as forceful as he would’ve been without a firmly _not_ laughing Steve for an audience. He also forgot to confiscate the paper crane when he left (which, of course, probably had as much to do with the fact that Clint had partially colored on it with a blue Sharpie as with any soft-heartedness).

Bruce encountered Coulson several other times during regular Insomniac Visiting Hours: doing paperwork next to Steve’s bed and humming lightly to himself, completely unembarrassed to be caught at it. He always nodded to Bruce like they were just passing in the hallway, and then went back to his paperwork and humming.

After listening in on some of Natasha’s reading of _The Art of War_ , Thor was full of enthusiasm for the book. He liked _The Lord of the Rings_ , too (although Bruce had caught something close to heartbreak on his face when Natasha had read certain passages about Boromir and Faramir).

When Steve was up for discussion, the two of them discussed strategy and weapons. When Steve wasn’t up for it, Thor reminisced aloud about feasts, and glorious victory marches, and the beauty of Asgard, as well as his newfound love for Midgard—primarily, Bruce suspected at times, because of her bounty of Snickers bars, movie theaters, Chinese buffets, and coin-operated crane machines—and there was Dr. Foster, too.

In comparison to all that, Bruce knew he was more than a little boring as company, but he did his best. He kept Steve informed on every word the doctors told him, carefully guarding Steve’s right to be talked _to_ , instead of _about_.

Steve was all too aware of the potential mine field that the topic of the Serum might present to Bruce, aka The Other Guy. And maybe it wasn’t exactly comfortable, but, regardless, Bruce initiated discussion of the circulating theories for recreation of the Serum, because none of them were about to give up, and Steve needed to know it. He also kept Steve up-to-date on Radner’s (lack of) forthcoming information. And Steve seemed to be hungry for the information, even at his worst when the fever peaked, so Bruce kept up his own dull, fact-filled form of support.

By contrast, Tony was an enigma of contradictions.

The part where he jabbered on inanely about the latest celebrity gossip—long-sufferingly elaborating when Steve asked who, exactly, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were—that was the Tony they all expected. 

The Tony who seemed completely at ease giving impromptu backrubs, however, was another matter. That he immediately took up boasting about his bedside manner, like he was God’s gift to invalids everywhere, at least reassured them all that he hadn’t actually had his brain taken over by aliens.

He also bought a bonsai plant at least three times as big as Natasha’s, and lorded it over her until he realized he didn’t have a clue how to take care of it, and was forced to cover sulkiness with magnanimity as he relinquished its care to “the Ninja Gardener.” Naturally, he went on from there to nit-pick her every move regarding said plants as attentively as if he and Natasha were divorced with shared custody of two bonsai-children that were clearly in need of his paternal oversight.

Steve observed, participated, smiled, slept—and, slowly, began to recover. It seemed to signal an upswing in their luck.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve been charged with seeing you eat every last bite of that.” Nodding to the tray of food a nurse had put on the swivel table in front of Steve, Bruce deposited himself in the by-then overly familiar chair, adjusting the pillow someone (probably Clint) had brought to cushion it.

Steve eyed his meal, then Bruce. “It doesn’t look bad.” He made it sound polite, yet dubious.

“But not so good, either,” Bruce contributed honestly, with a glance at the nondescript-looking clear soup, and its side helping of oyster crackers. “Before he left to visit home, Thor was pestering the docs to give you steak. Insisted you ‘required more hearty sustenance than mere broth.’”

“I really love that guy.” Steve raised a spoonful and sampled it. He didn’t make a face, but neither did he hurry to repeat the process. “Not that I disagree with the docs, even if steak sounds wonderful in theory.”

“Well, let’s work on making it reality.”

Steve drank more soup, then raised an eyebrow at him contemplatively. “They really did put you on babysitting duty, didn’t they?”

Bruce shrugged. “I volunteered. I’ve got some news on Radner for you, anyway. He’s not doing so well. Despite being fully recovered from Thor, he keeps throwing up. He’s not sick, though, as far as the doctors can tell. But he’s not faking the nausea and headaches, either.”

“Sympathy pains of remorse?” Steve suggested wryly.

“Not likely, to hear Coulson say tell it. You know, I’m beginning to think maybe more than _Thor_ ‘happened’ to Radner.” He hadn’t really meant to say that out loud, and added, only partly joking, “Don’t tell Coulson I said that.”

Steve washed down an oyster cracker with a sip of water. He looked at Bruce questioningly.

“When he’s not paying you visits, he’s a little twitchy these days,” Bruce clarified.

Steve just shook his head. “Coulson wouldn’t…” he waved a hand vaguely, “…do that.”

“Maybe not. But Radner’s definitely used up his grace period, if he ever had one to begin with. It’s been two weeks, and still nothing helpful.” He winced in apology. “Not that you don’t already know all that.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’ve gone over the notes on his laptop three times now, and—”

“—I did it. I just _did_ it,” Tony crowed, entering as if the mere fact that he’d shown up was a miracle already worthy of applause. “Clint owes me fifty bucks.”

“Do we really want to know?” Bruce asked mildly on Steve’s behalf, as Steve himself was too busy looking mildly pained with apprehension.

“Yes. Yes, you do. You’re dying to know.” Tony couldn’t have looked at Steve more proudly if he’d just finished creating him. “I officially don’t have to kidnap you. Clint can kiss his elaborate plans goodbye and pay up, because I just browbeat Fury into seeing things my way.”

Steve chewed on an oyster cracker, the sound rather deflating the effect of the statement, and Bruce wouldn’t have put it past his subtle brand of humor to have done it deliberately to keep Tony from floating away with an inflated head. 

Tony scowled. “You can thank me at your leisure.”

“For?”

That one little question was enough to give new life to Tony’s preening need to boast. “Getting you out of here, and set up in style.”

“You mean I can leave?” The hope in Steve’s voice was unadulterated. He’d grumbled half-heartedly about needing some air, but Bruce hadn’t realized just how stir-crazy he was getting until he saw that look.

Tony set his shoulders back, tilted his head, and crossed his arms over his puffed-out chest. “You said it.”

Steve abandoned all thought of eating. “What’s the catch?” 

“There isn’t one. Just freedom, and all the hospitality of mine humble abode.”

“ _Tony_.” 

Bruce could see the cause of Steve’s unyielding suspicion in the way Tony’s eyes gleamed a bit too cheerfully. It made Tony look even more than usually manic.

Tony was too smart to keep up a ruse when it was already ruined. He huffed the same kind of huff he might’ve made over a particularly tiresome meeting, or a particularly tiresome bureaucrat. But the brief look of genuine guilt that passed over his face was not lost on either of them, and when he answered he did so with unexpected gravitas: “Radner… He, uh, just died from a sudden aneurism. This morning.” He checked his watch in fidgety manner.  “One hour, twenty-seven minutes ago, to be precise.” 

Steve was stricken, for just a moment—the time it took for him to inhale, exhale, and swallow. “I suppose this means…”

“This _means,_ ” Tony interrupted, “that you’re relocating until such time as we can fix this. Because we will. Fix this.”

“But he didn’t say anything before he died?” Steve asked quietly.

“Coulson will get you a transcript—“ Tony broke off at a look from Steve, sighing a second time. “He said something about becoming the next Super Soldier. A better Super Soldier.”

Steve nodded, thoughtfully. “So, he managed to… _extract_ the Serum somehow, or thought he had. Maybe mixed it with something else before injecting himself. But it didn’t work.”

“It’s looking that way. There’ll be an autopsy, of course.”

They were all silent a moment, none of them mentioning metabolism rates, or the fact that even if they could find trace amounts of Radner’s personal Super Serum Cocktail the fact remained that something had obviously been lost in translation. Something that had all too likely been at least partially responsible for Radner’s death.

Steve picked up another oyster cracker, but he didn’t eat it, just turned the hexagonal shape around between thumb and middle finger, studying it like it might hold the answers he needed. “And Fury really agreed to let me leave? To stay at the Tower?”

“Course. Who better to keep an eye on you?”

 Steve raised an eyebrow.

“I meant us, the _Team_ ,” Tony amended rather sulkily, like he’d gotten the same reaction before. “And the ‘keeping an eye on you’ part was just to give the scheme some polish. You know, a semblance of responsibility.” He glanced at Bruce, “You don’t have any plans, right? Because I already promised Fury you guys would be hanging around, too.”

“We’re required for the semblance of responsibility?” Bruce asked mildly.

“There’s always Pepper. And JARVIS. And _me_ ,” Tony finished, self-righteously, daring either of them to comment on his dubious ability to responsibly manage _himself_.

“I don’t want to be a burden to any of you. I learned how to survive on my own long before I was Captain America, you know.” Steve’s voice was borderline defensive, but mostly just stern with dignity, a reminder that he wasn’t so much baggage to be traded off from one person to another.

“Totally missing the point, Steve-o,” Tony was blasé, unapologetic, “Fury seems to think I have the potential to ‘lead them astray.’ Which is just his way of continually dredging up the past…”

Bruce guffawed. He couldn’t help it.

“That media firestorm you sparked was just last week,” Steve pointed out.

“Clint was the one who flipped off the reporters, I’ll remind you. I was perfectly kid-friendly.” 

“I think what he’s trying to say,” Bruce intervened, “is that Fury’s just as concerned with keeping an eye on Tony as he is with keeping on eye on you.” 

“That was totally _not_ what I was trying to say,” Tony refuted heartily. “Nobody puts me on probation for being rude. I get to be rude as often as I like.”

Steve smiled at both of them, like he knew exactly what their angle was. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the thought. But I _know_ I’m still useful, and I don’t plan on lying around moping just because SHIELD thinks I’m liable to get myself stepped on without supervision.” 

Tony snorted indelicately. “That’s so not the point, either, Captain Oblivious. I mean, it is sort of a side-point, because no one wants you getting stepped on. You’re like a national treasure. The downsized version. And we don’t let people go around stepping on national treasures— _especially_ when it comes to the downsized version. It goes without saying that there would be severe penalties for anyone who tried it. But the point is…” he paused, mouth tightening, like he was steeling himself for a dive into ice water. “Well, you know. We still want you around…around us. No matter what. Team’s team. And you can’t mess with that. Or you shouldn’t mess with it. The dynamics, I mean. Of a well-oiled machine. Like us—the Team.” He made a face like his own words tasted like soap. “Okay—you two can stop me, you know, whenever.”

Something in Steve’s expression relented, softened, even if there was a shadow of the reserve Steve had been suddenly so intent on maintaining since they got him back from Radner. Bruce could sympathize with that reserve. If this was permanent, Steve was going to be dealing with a broad range of reactions, most of which would undoubtedly involve large doses of condescension and misjudgment. Steve had dealt with it before, and he knew how to deal with it then. This was a Steve who’d had to fight for every bit of hard-won respect, and who refused to take pity or accept the limitations people’s low estimation of him could’ve placed on him.

It wasn’t really a new side of Steve so much as a side of him that had been easy to miss. Before, muscle and height had informed the majority of idiots on sight that Steve Rogers didn’t stand to be messed with. Now those idiots would have to come by their education the hard way.

Bruce also couldn’t help but think about how Tony was the only one who could get away with calling Steve a “downsized national treasure,” and further persist in commenting on the possibility of him getting “stepped on,” saying it all _to his face_ , and get _that_ kind of reaction. It all proved that Tony’s charm was truly a brand unique unto itself. Although there was also definitely something else in the mix—some sort of silent understanding that looked suspiciously like friendship—developing between the two of them that Bruce could only shrug at and accept.

So it wasn’t with any great surprise that Bruce played witness to the rest of the arrangements.

Steve said quietly, seriously, with a searching look on his face, like he could literally detect any signs of untruth in Tony’s response: “I don’t want to be inconvenient.”

Of course Steve would take it there. For being so humble in general, Steve had a streak of pride that, in its own way, was just as hardheaded and stubborn as Tony’s.

Tony actually jerked his head back in surprise, and there was honest disbelief in his eyes. “You’re kidding me, Cap? Right?”

Steve’s face was a deadpan, arched-brow perfect representation of an emphatic “ _no_.” The fact that it was on a considerably thinner version of Steve’s face than either of them was used to seeing didn’t diminish its authority.

Tony heaved a put-upon sigh, a perfect not-so-deadpan representation of impatience. “You’re like a—”

“—National treasure, yeah, you said that,” Steve finished, with a weary look that, from someone snarkier, might’ve translated, _“So archive me in a museum.”_

“Well, yes,” Tony said sharply, with a schoolteacher glance at Steve over nonexistent glasses, “but we’re on to the next analogy, so keep up, soldier. You’ve been wounded in action, and you’ve earned a break.” He nodded in affirmation of a brilliant point, simply put.

“Thor keeps saying that,” Steve allowed.

“Thor’s right. You should listen to him.”

Bruce agreed, silently.

Steve’s expression relented further. “I have been. And I get it—I’m not the only guy to get sidelined by…unforeseen hazards of war. If this doesn’t turn out…” his voice drifted off, and he didn’t resume the thought. “It just takes a bit, you know? To get over the self-pity.” He smiled a small smile, half self-derision, half composed of that mysterious element that was present in a lot of Steve’s expressions of amusement. It was like he was perpetually telling himself a joke, and having a private, subdued laugh over it.

“ _Hey_ ,” Tony said, with a two-handed gesture that indicated himself, “the champion of self-pity, speaking. We’ll do therapy together, it’ll be great. Pepper will be so proud.” As if the name “Pepper” was enough to sound an immediate retreat back into the realm of childish irresponsibility, he amended, “I’m kidding. We can sulk, and feel sorry for ourselves, and generally rail against the universe for being so heartless and unfair. It’ll be fantastic. Cathartic. You want in, Bruce?”

Bruce made a non-committal noise, trying to imagine how that proposed scenario would’ve ended.

Steve looked thoughtful, and there was an edge of the mystery-amusement lingering around his eyes. “You’re just doing this to spite Fury.”

“Well, _duh_. But you still have to agree, before we can get the spitefulness underway. Because there’s no way Fury or Coulson are going to let their travel-sized golden boy be bullied into going anywhere against his will. It’s really kind of adorable how those two have started up their own Mama Bear and Papa Bear routine over anything involving you. Granted, when it comes to Fury, favoritism can look suspiciously like exasperation—but when it comes to you? The fondness is definitely there. I’m an expert on shades of exasperation.” 

Steve looked more than a little dubious. “But he’ll let me leave?”

“If you want to.” Clearly against his better judgment, Tony added, “Not that SHIELD’s throwing you out.”

“Because clearly I’ve still got to be of some scientific value, even with Radner dead and this all beginning to look irreversible.” Steve appeared to be joking. Mostly.

Tony couldn’t have looked more outraged if Steve had suggested Tony was the second most brilliant man alive. “Now that’s just wallowing, Cap.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, without retracting his statement. His eyes wandered around the room that had been his living space for far too long. Equipped to defend against invasions SHIELD might be, but equipped to make a room homey it was _not_. Even with the personal touches they’d all brought, there was an unyielding lack of personality to the room had to make it begin to feel like a prison cell. At any rate, it was definitely not a place particularly conducive to optimism. 

Tony obviously agreed with Bruce’s assessment.

“Let’s get you out of here.” Tony wasn’t really pleading, but there was compassion in his voice. “Out, where you can eat pizza, and lounge on actual furniture, and get out of that paper uniform they’ve got you in. So you’re not fit for the field right now—so what? SHIELD doesn’t own you. You’ve got other options besides _this_ , Cap, and I know you’re ready to jail-break.”

“First thing tomorrow?” Steve asked, and now that he was caving the eager hope was back, making him look impossibly young.

“Today, if you’re up for getting your scrawny butt out of that bed,” Tony goaded, with the self-satisfied grin of man figuratively hailing himself as Emperor of Persuasiveness. “Now eat your soup.”

Bruce thought maybe he’d never found Tony’s aggravating charm quite so genuinely endearing as at that moment.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to take this long to update - sorry! My summer schedule is just throwing me off my online routines, and generally intruding on my fandom time. XD

Sitting on a barstool in Stark’s (ridiculous) kitchen, Clint used his spoon to chase a soggy yellow fruit loop around the edge of his bowl.

It’d been a week since Steve had relocated to Stark Tower, and the rest of the team had followed like a minor invasion. Only, Stark Tower was big enough to host a couple of invasions without becoming cramped.

Clint had occasionally taken Stark up previously on his offers of hospitality. The whole team had—with varying degrees of wariness, or, in Bruce’s case, with a shrug of grateful acceptance—before discovering that Stark’s magnanimity appeared to come with no (as-yet discovered) strings attached.

This time, though, none of them had had any doubts as to why the doors of Stark Tower had been thrown wide open, and for Clint it made all the difference. He liked to see all the cards on the table. At least insofar as the all the cards were ever on the table when it came to dealing with a pack of chronic liars, spies, and assassins—among whose number Clint accounted himself. Thor and Steve were the ones to tell you things like they were. Thor, with the fearless bluntness of god who “feared neither man nor beast;” Steve, like honesty actually _was_ the only option, or at least undoubtedly the best policy.

Clint didn’t regret his decision to stick around, but he was becoming bored. Bored in a way that verged on being interesting, just by virtue of sheer untried domestic normalcy. He wasn’t used to a steady lack of urgency. Normalcy, the kind where waiting wasn’t about being on guard against attack, was a novelty. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

He was used to watching things. Guarding things. Making sure no detail went unnoticed. But this assignment wasn’t really an assignment so much as something he, Clint, needed to do. There was no concrete goal for him. Even if Steve hadn’t been decidedly on the mend, the matter of ensuring Steve got the healthcare he needed was already more than being seen to. A private nurse, Pepper, and Bruce were all directly involved there. And that wasn’t to mention Tony, who’d arranged the whole thing “out of the coldness of my uncaring heart” when Clint had asked him, bluntly, why he’d pushed for it. And _that_ wasn’t to mention JARVIS, who catered to Steve’s needs with something approaching eerily not-artificial favoritism.

Really, it would’ve been all too easy to take up a grudge against Steve, if it weren’t so hard to take up a grudge against Steve.

Clint finally fished out the sole surviving fruit loop, drinking a spoonful of sugary milk along with it. He was pouring himself second bowl full when Steve entered, dressed casually in loose track pants and a blue t-shirt with a grunge-print white _Brooklyn NY_ lettered on it, layered over a long-sleeved grey shirt. He looked like the poster boy for hard-studying, starving college students in need of some hearty TV dinners. Pronto.                               

Clint couldn’t deny it was easy to see why the nurse encouraged Steve to stick to his rooms, not exert himself too much. But he couldn’t deny it was easier still to see why Steve had disagreed with her assessment of his progress—politely, but firmly. Clint would’ve probably shot someone by day three of being cooped up like an invalid. 

Steve had a nod and a smile for Clint as he set about making himself two slices of toast.

Natasha came in shortly thereafter, snagging a bowl and spoon of her own and settling on chair next to Clint to pour herself a generous bowl of fruit loops.

Steve cast them a look over his shoulder that verged on being perplexed. “How you two keep going all day on that…” 

Clint raised a spoonful of colorful “O”s in toast. “Breakfast of Champions, Cap.” Neither he, nor Natasha (judging by her private smirk), were about to kill the beauty of the moment by telling Steve about the carton of eggs they’d managed to demolish between them, not an hour earlier, transforming them into a giant batch of cheesy scrambled goodness. This was just a mid-morning chaser.

“You guys sure you don’t want some toast with that?”

“We’re sure, Mom,” Natasha replied cheerfully.

Steve adjusted the settings on the toaster and pressed the button that lowered the bread and turned on the Stark-guaranteed-to-evenly-brown heating elements. It turned out no appliance in the Stark arsenal was too plebian to garner Tony’s over-zealous attention.

“You’re really catching on, there, with the doohickeys, Gramps,” Clint said, appraisingly.

“Mom? Gramps?” There was good humor aplenty beneath the veneer of Steve’s grouchiness. “You kids need to make up your minds.”

Steve went to open the cupboards in search of peanut butter, head already tilted back to eye the top shelf, out of his reach. No doubt he was already calculating the pros and cons of a getting the stepstool out, versus just acknowledging the embarrassment head-on and asking one of them to reach it for him. Clint had seen him use the stepstool yesterday, when Steve hadn’t realized Clint was standing in the doorway. He’d watched Steve put the jar back exactly where he’d taken it from, because Steve was just that kind of houseguest. The perfectionistic, overly-polite idiot. It wasn’t like any of the rest of them were everyday peanut butter consumers like Cap—and getting used to retrieving it off the first shelf instead the top definitely wasn’t on anyone’s list of top ten Horrible Inconveniences, in any case.

Clint had anticipated a need, and he felt undeniably smug sitting back and watching Steve discover the peanut butter on the bottom shelf, handy, easily within reach. He watched Steve take it down and slowly unscrew the lid. After setting out a plate and butter knife in readiness, Steve turned, mouth half open in hesitant question.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Something up, Cap?”

“No. No, it’s just I…” Steve shook his head, leaning a hip against the edge of the counter. Although, really, he wasn’t tall enough for the familiar stance, and wound up just leaning his ribcage against it, now. “Never mind.” But despite verbally brushing it off, Steve gave Clint a pointed look, both “I’m on to you,” and “Thank you,” wrapped into one.

Bread nicely browned, peanut butter spread, Steve set the jar back in its reassigned place on the lower shelf and sat down on Clint’s other side.

The three of them crunched through their respective breakfasts in companionable noise.

Steve stalled one bite into his second slice of toast, getting that _look_ on his face that Clint had noticed lately. It was the one he got when he got halfway through a meal on autopilot before realizing he didn’t have much of an appetite. The look that heralded an abandoned meal thanks to uncooperative taste buds, a smaller stomach, and a comparatively nonexistent metabolism.

The problem was partly that Steve was just smaller than Captain America. Maybe a whole lot smaller. But he wasn’t a _mouse_ , and Clint was totally on board with Thor’s way of thinking. Namely: they might be helpless to change Steve back, but they can at least make sure downsized Steve is eating enough to keep a small child alive. 

Thor had his own rousing, amiable ways of urging Steve to eat more. He made nagging sound like poetry, like eating more was a glorious act worthy of ballads. Most enviable of all, Thor made it sound natural and _not_ condescending. A warrior urging his brother on to great feats of feasting.

Clint had his own ways.

“I’ll hold you down, and Nat can make you finish that. Or you can just eat it.”

Steve gave him a look that morphed from a frown of surprise into something Clint couldn’t fully decipher. It wasn’t really anger, or even irritation.

Okay, maybe there was a little irritation. But mostly he looked grateful, again. Like he was perpetually amazed to look up and find other people not only watching him, but threatening to do things for his own good when he hit a low point and had trouble summoning the willpower to keep pushing.

“Careful, Cap, he’ll do it. And I’ll help,” Natasha backed him up, cheerfully.

Steve took a deliberate bite of toast. Chewed. Swallowed. “Happy?”

“Keep going.”

“You should really have some more protein with that. An egg or something,” Natasha suggested.

Steve didn’t even bother to call them on the apparent hypocrisy of their criticism. He arched a brow, sounding close to disgruntlement, or possibly full-blown amusement, as he asked rhetorically: “You guys do realize that you make the worst mother hens in the history of…” 

“Forever?” Clint suggested.

Steve’s expression agreed. “None of you,” it was clear he meant to include the entire team, “have anything better to do than play video games, eat kids’ cereal, and threaten to force-feed me?”

Clint traced a finger through the maze game printed on the back of the fruit loops box. “Nope. You know, not until the next threat to the universe comes calling. Then we’ll abandon you in a hot second. But until then…”

“You’re not getting rid of us,” Natasha finished for him.

Steve ate his toast.

And when Thor joined them a few minutes later, and Natasha suggested they use the rest of the box of cereal to make fruit loop cereal bars, Thor’s enthusiasm for the prospect of combining sugary cereal with marshmallows and butter simply wasn’t to be denied.

Two assassins plus the God of Thunder were three warrior-cooks too many for any kitchen, even one designed to be large enough to house Tony’s ego each morning. Most of the difficulty lay in the fact that finding useful things—like spatulas and microwave-safe bowls—became a miniature quest in Tony Stark’s showcase-ready/practicality-baffling kitchen. Not even a vaguely pained-but-helpful JARVIS, or a cautionary Steve, could keep them from creating some minor chaos before they were through.

Waiting for their creation to set up firmly wasn’t an option, so they cut it while it was still a gooey, warm mess. Natasha was a pro, delicately stringing bite-sized amounts into her mouth and licking the tips of her fingers neatly clean, like a cat.

The rest of them got by with being enthusiastic slobs. Clint couldn’t decide whether it was more satisfying to watch Thor get strings of marshmallow stuck in his beard, or to watch Steve, fingers stuck together, capitulating with a rueful smirk to the lack of manners required for shoving globs of melted cereal bar into your mouth.

There was a certain kind of boredom that Clint could officially handle.                                   

 

* * *

 

“Sir?” JARVIS’ voice coolly interrupted Tony’s work. “Perhaps you would appreciate an update on Captain Rogers’ status?”

“Why? The runt up to something? Tell me he hasn’t wandered into the forbidden West Wing.”

“The eighteenth level _gym_ facilities, Sir. Are there any ‘wings’ that you wish me to consider ‘forbidden?’”

“Don’t get huffy, now. I say ‘runt’ in the fondest meaning of the word.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Tony rolled his eyes, wheeling his chair across the row of screens that had streams of information being spewed across them. Primarily, his net was catching little more than the idle tittering of Captain America fans arguing theories on the Super Soldier Serum. The words “dormant vaccine-like virus” and “energizer steroids” and “Mystery Miracle Substance of Awesome” were all bandied about with varying levels of awe or cynicism. Tony tended to prefer the last as the most plausible, or at least the most _inspired_ answer to the decades-old question, but “Mystery Miracle Substance of Awesome” lacked a certain scientific documentation. Disappointing.

Then there was the chattering coming from the actual scientists, about successful “Mighty Mice” being genetically engineered. Apparently, the Lance Armstrongs of the rodent population were having their ten seconds of fame. Of course, said supermice were also “very aggressive” for reasons unknown.

Mostly, the conclusion was that Dr. Erskine couldn’t have possibly done what he did, and Captain America _definitely_ couldn’t have survived days, let alone so many years, on ice. The nay-saying peons clearly lacked a can-do attitude.

Tony’s personal working theory was that Erskine’s Serum was some kind of distilled optimism, delivered in high concentration, that had reacted to the latent optimism that already ran in Steve’s veins. The end result was the creation of something implausible, the likes of which were impossible to recreate in the modern era of hyper-realism and actually-possible medicine. 

To Bruce’s credit, he’d heard Tony out before given him a longsuffering look of tolerance—to which Tony had taken some offence. After all, it was a new thing for him, contemplating optimism and idealism as a solution. 

The world might’ve begged to differ with his theory, but he was Tony Stark. Enough said. End of argument. Proof was all he needed, now. And a way to bottle some more optimism, while keeping Steve’s latent optimism from giving out on them.

Which meant there wouldn’t be so much as a glimpse for Steve of the vulgar little snots making so bold (from the safety of their online Troll Playgrounds) as to imply Captain America was a living impossibility. Not that he was having difficulty fending off computers from Steve at present.

All of which was obviously a riveting study in why science fiction was still a genre to be scoffed at as far more ludicrously and blatantly unbelievable than real life could ever be, but…

“Sir?” JARVIS interrupted his thoughts a second time.

“You know, ‘Keep an eye on Rogers,’ really wasn’t supposed to be code for ‘Let’s adopt, honey.’”

“In general, Captain Rogers is perfectly capable of seeing to his own welfare.”

“While _I_ , on the other hand, am so deeply troubled by my own irresponsibility that my subconscious drove me to create a certain AI Nanny for reasons of self-preservation.”

“Would you prefer I remind you to sleep and eat something now, or later, Sir?”

“Who taught you to sound pitying?” Tony grumbled, mostly because he could’ve really used some sleep, and something to eat. “Scratch that. Back to Rogers. He’s not trying to lift weights, or something, is he?”

“He is not lifting the weights, no, Sir. He has a distinct preference for the treadmill or the punching bag, as previously noted of his normal exercise routine.”

For the moment, Tony tried to ignore the alarm the words “normal exercise routine” created when used in conjunction with not-normal Steve.

“He’s not overdoing it, is he?”

“Captain Rogers’ heart rate has reached 162 BPM, and continues to increase along with his already labored respiratory rate. Considering his recent illness, and medical history, I thought it wise to inform you.”

Tony swore as he levered himself to his feet. “How long’s he been at it?”

“Seventeen minutes, Sir.”

Seventeen minutes sounded innocuous enough. For Captain America. A few short weeks ago seventeen minutes probably wouldn’t have been enough exercise for Steve’s heart to rise beyond a sleeping rate. Steve’s knuckles would’ve given out long before his heart, and even then the healing factor didn’t let that kind of thing hold him back for long. 

“I tried to suggest a break,” JARVIS was the AI embodiment of meek apology, “but he appears to be deeply focused.”

“Not your fault, JARVIS,” Tony said, hurrying towards the elevators.

To Steve’s credit, he was landing solid blows to the punching bag. To the punching bag’s credit, Steve was letting out staccato bursts of air, in-sync with each jab, like he was the one being repeatedly hit.

“Steve.”

There was no response. Tony stepped close enough to touch, without doing so. Seeing him so ineffectual—so limited, and determined, and unyielding—was like seeing him stripped down to the essential components that really made Steve _Steve_.

It made Tony hesitate, pause to listen to the smack of knuckles on leather: the soundtrack to Steve’s frustration. The frustration of a fighter trapped in a small man’s body.

Steve might not have Captain America’s reflexes now, but he was still coordinated and sure in his movements. It occurred to Tony with a resounding “duh” that, despite his only knowing Steve as the Cap, this guy in front of him had _been_ Steve for the majority of Steve’s life. Between playing lab rat, poster boy, and war hero, Steve couldn’t have had much time to really stop and take stock of the new him. Then there’d been his “death” and subsequent rebirth into a strange new world.

Being Captain America probably felt like more of the novelty to Steve than, well… _this_.

The punching bag was definitely getting the better of Steve now, and it hurt to watch.

“Cap?” Tony pitched his voice between question and order.

Steve turned with alacrity, fists raised.

Tony held up both hands. “Easy…easy. I surrender, Rocky.”

The gentle irony worked like a charm to dispel the hot look in Steve’s eye. He drooped with surprised exhaustion, dropping his fists, bracing splayed fingers against his thighs as he bent forward, gasping.

“Geez, Cap. You trying to kill yourself, or just worry JARVIS to tears? I think you’re fairly close to accomplishing both.”

 “Sorry.” Steve let his head hang forward, giving Tony a view of sweat-glistening hair. “Lost…track…time.”

“C’mon. You can grovel after you’ve stopped giving yourself an asthma attack.” Tony said it jokingly, but as he all but physically hauled a wheezing Steve towards the rec room he began to worry over the stifled sound of his breathing. He’d already had quite enough of listening to Steve gasp for air like a drowning man, _thank you very much._

“’He’s recovering nicely,’ says the doctor,” Tony muttered, depositing Steve on the couch. “’Weekly check-ins will be fine now,’ says the nurse…” He ground his teeth. “Well, obviously, the idiots don’t have the first clue—”

“—Just…asthma,” Steve wheezed at him. “Be fine….in a...”

“Sir?” JARVIS’ voice hovered, attentively. “I believe Miss Potts stocked the medical cabinet with inhalers per the doctor’s prescription for Captain Rogers.”

“Put it on my to-do list to propose to that woman.” Tony made a beeline for the first aid supplies.

“Perhaps I should send Miss Potts a memorandum to remind you to do so when it is most convenient to her schedule. “

“Yeah, yeah. Perfect.” There were two different types of inhalers, conveniently lined up like a small life-saving army. “JARVIS, which—”

“—The emergency inhalers are on your left.” 

Tony snatched one up and returned to Steve. But once “armed,” Tony wasn’t clear on what wielding entailed.

 Steve, still making an alarming sawing noise with each breath, stuck out a hand to receive it.

“Per Nurse Anderson’s instructions:” JARVIS reminded him, “inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth, expelling the stale oxygen-deficient air completely from your lungs. Take even breaths, as deep as you can make them, Captain.”

Tony didn’t recall programming JARVIS to “soothe and coo calmingly,” but JARVIS had always been good at improvising. In any case, Tony was glad _one_ of them knew how to coo, because Steve was pale, and shaky, and all Tony was coming up with was a dazed, clueless, expression that probably made him look fish-like. He made a mental note to re-watch _Signs_ to see if he could pick up any tips on handling asthma attacks from Mel Gibson. Because Hollywood was always accurate on those things.

“Five minute intervals are recommended between doses. Timer set, Captain,” JARVIS informed Steve. “I will inform you when the five minutes have elapsed.”

“Just, you know, keep on breathing, Steve. That’s the stuff,” Tony said, inspired and inspiring. Because he couldn’t just sit here dumbly and let the AI _he_ had _made_ show him up. Too badly.

“So…glad you’re…here…Tony.”

“Did I say ‘make wisecracks?’ I distinctly remember _not_ saying anything about you making wisecracks. So…stop. Don’t try to talk until you can actually breathe again.” Tony frowned. “Why are you still making so much noise?” He realized he’d just empirically told Steve not to talk, and directed his question elsewhere. “Should he still be sounding like that, JARVIS? Are you sure Pepper got the right prescription?”  


Steve laughed, only it was the sort of harsh chuff of air that might have easily been mistaken for the last gasp of a dying man. “Supposed…to be…calm one.”

“I _am_ calm. Now shuddup and breathe already. No more back-talk. This time I mean it.”

“A most delicate bedside manner, Sir.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Tony snapped. The big show-off. Where JARVIS got the rebellious streak from was one of the great mysteries of the universe. “Time?”

“Two minutes, twenty-nine seconds.”

“Speed it up.” 

“I believe we’ve had this conversation before, Sir. About manipulating time to do your bidding.”

“We have?” Now Tony was unashamedly making small-talk—very, very small-talk—because the only alternative was to sit there and listen to Steve trying to breathe. Or, more accurately from the sound, Steve trying to not _stop_ breathing.

There was something about the sound that was irritating—that made Tony want to snap at Steve to just stop it already and breathe right. But he was aware of the selfishness of that impulse (because, hey, Steve probably wasn’t exactly enjoying himself, either.) Also, Pepper had informed Tony once that a kinder way to express concern would be to either, A, man up and just _tell_ the person you were concerned for them, or, B, shut up and go away.

Although she hadn’t used those words exactly. She may have also said a few other things, less informative and more expressive.

In her defense, she’d just finished wrangling with a bout of stomach flu, and Tony’s delicate bedside manner had been less refined in those long-ago days of yesteryear (or yestermonth).

As a sort of middle-ground tribute to the obvious wisdom of Pepper’s advice, Tony was working on silent commiseration. Right now. For Steve. Silent commiseration, and inane small-talk to keep Steve from feeling awkward about the whole thing.

“Yes, Sir, not too long ago,” JARVIS said patiently, not-sighing like JARVIS always not-sighed. Conspicuously.

“Right.” He tapped a finger to his temple in the universal gesture of the absentminded. “What can I say? The dilemma of being unable to manipulate time—it’s like a hangnail: that pesky and cumbersome problem that you just never _quite_ get around to fixing, because finding that elusive nail-clipper and taking care of it is just too much work. But I’ll get to it—the time manipulation, that is. No excuses. Just later. This weekend. Definitely this weekend. Slot that in on my schedule, JARVIS: bend time to my will. After I propose to Pep and take care of this annoying hangnail I’d forgotten about. We can slow the honeymoon down to a snail’s pace, and by the time we get back we’ll have skipped on to Old Married Couple status.” Actually, they’d kind of already done that. But, even so, the potential alone for fast-forwarding through board meetings and debriefings…

“And then you can send me back,” Steve wheezed, joking. Or possibly heartsick and full of longing, and buying in—just a little—to Tony’s ability to make “magic” like time-travel happen. “Back…in time. To my time.”

“Nuh uh,” Tony returned decisively. “They had their chance. It’s the twenty-first century’s turn to keep Captain America. We _found_ him.” 

“I think…you already had your turn…too.”

“Oxygen deprivation makes you morbid, Cap.”

“Captain?” JARVIS interrupted. “Five minutes have elapsed.”

Steve raised the inhaler, took in a grateful breath, held it, let his lungs deflate.

“I should be calling an ambulance, shouldn’t I?” Tony declared bleakly, trying to decide if Steve sounded worse or better, and for the life himself unable to decide. “I should be. I’m sitting here talking about hangnails while Captain America is dying. JARVIS—”

“—On standby to—”

“—No,” Steve contradicted, still sucking in breaths, but evening it out with more control. “No….it’s better. It’s getting better. I was…just stupid. Pushing it like that.”

“Can’t argue with ya there,” Tony griped righteously. “No, wait. Actually, I can. Because ‘stupid’ is an understatement, you First-Class Idiot.”

“Perhaps there should be a time limit set on your gym sessions, Captain. Temporarily.” JARVIS. The soul of tact. And cooing.

Steve looked up, really taking stock of things for the first time since the attack. Though by now he knew perfectly well that JARVIS was an AI, and not someone whose eye could actually be met, he still had a habit of looking conversationally up at the ceiling whenever he talked to JARVIS. Now, he cast a tired look of amusement upwards. “As much as I hate to admit it, that might be for the best.” He took a deep breath that shuddered. “There’s a zone you can reach that’s, well…” He shook his head. “I just forgot for a minute, that I can’t do that. Just zone out, and keep going.”

Tony clapped him on the shoulder. “An honest mistake. Though I should point out that you actually forgot for more than _a_ minute. Try seventeen minutes, exactly. But who’s keeping track of these things? You know, besides me, JARVIS, Pepper, Fury, Clint, Natasha, Thor, Bruce, and Coulson?” He still had his hand on Steve’s shoulder, could feel shivers rolling off of him. “Pepper is also going to have _my_ hide over this, not yours, Captain Do-No-Wrong.” Tony resisted the urge to ruffle Steve’s hair. It was easier than it might have otherwise been, at the moment, considering Steve was a sweaty mess.

“I’ll tell her what happened.” Steve used the back of his hand to swipe at the side of his face. 

“You’ll do no such thing. Being the victim of Pepper’s wrath is something you train for. Build up stamina for.”

“I think I could handle it,” Steve mused.

Tony held up a finger. “Aha. But you only say that with such confidence because you fought in World War II, and did stuff like punch Hitler in the jaw, and think you’re man enough to face Pepper because of it.” 

“You know, that part about punching Hitler…” Steve began.

“So just leave Pepper to me.” Tony interrupted blithely. “Anyway, we have a chance at keeping this hush-hush, if you’re game. JARVIS isn’t a tattle-tale— _are you_ , JARVIS?”

“Wild horses could not drag it from me, Sir.” JARVIS was consummately dignified and full of genuine artificial pride.

“Thanks… Thanks, both of you,” Steve said, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. It was a habitual gesture that suddenly made sense when seen on this version of Steve. The shy, introverted side of Cap—the side of his personality that caused him rub absently at his neck sometimes, in almost bashful uncertainty—looked less incongruous to Tony in hindsight. Steve had a lot of nerve, but sometimes he had to just feel small, if this was what he was used to.

“I think the inhaler did most of the work. And JARVIS.” Tony was relieved, which meant he was in a generous mood.

Steve examined the inhaler in his hand. “These things are amazing. Wish I’d had one of these back in the day, that’s for sure. My mom, she would’ve killed to get her hands on one. I mean _killed_.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “She had asthma?”

“I think she must’ve, though she was always trying to hide it from me when she didn’t feel good. But thinking back…yeah, she couldn’t breathe quite right sometimes, especially if she had to walk too fast. We were really a matched set, the two of us, trying to help each other along.” Steve had a lopsided smile on his lips, and a distant look in his eyes. “But she got really mad after she took me to the doctor. Saved up all that money, and then the doc said I was depressed. Moody. The breathing problems were psychosomatic. I think she almost hit him before storming out with me.” He raised his eyes to Tony’s. “She knew enough about how bad it hurt. How it felt, not to be able to breathe, and how thinking positively only helps so much when your lungs won’t work right.” He closed his fingers around the inhaler. “It’s funny. She’s been gone so long, but every once in a while I still have an urge to show her something like this, before I realize I can’t.”

Tony hesitated over what to do with the trust of that confession. Contrary to popular belief, he was capable of having a serious moment. Capable, just not terribly fond of the idea. But he couldn’t laugh this one off. Neither, however, did he have particular ability to reminisce fondly. Reminiscing was an exercise in dredging up the kind of emotional muck that left you either teary-eyed or angry.

“Moms,” he settled on, at last, “they’re always interested in whatever you’re interested in. They’re gifted like that.” He smiled a lopsided smile of his own, remembering his own mother’s ooing and ahhing over presents: mechanical gadgets of questionable engineering skill, and drawings of even more questionable artistic skill. No matter how far back his memory sought mental snap-shots of her reactions, they were always impressed by the things he’d made. “Or maybe,” he added, thoughtfully, “they’re just bestowed upon reaching motherhood with supernatural conman skills. Because, honestly, nobody likes the kind of stuff little kids come up with on the cheap. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the spark of genius was always there for Anthony Stark, but, well…even genius needs a warm-up stage. That robotic dog for Mother’s Day definitely wasn’t my best work. By age seven I was doing much better.”

“Mmm.”

Tony peered more closely at the face that belonged to Steve’s drooping head. “You’re falling asleep. I’m _searching my soul_ for something heartwarming, and you go and fall asleep on me.”

“Bragging,” Steve accused without any great concern or repentance.

“Fine. No more heartwarming stories for you. Off to naptime with the ingrate.” Tony began the process of peeling Steve off the couch. Steve got the idea, and let one of his arms flop across Tony’s shoulders.

“No stories?” Steve echoed, teasingly, with just an edge of tired, little-kid sulkiness added for good measure.

“No stories. _Ever_.”

“The Captain wishes to hear a tale?”

Tony jumped. To have Thor intrude unexpectedly on a conversation was to have a set of TV speakers turned on suddenly at full volume, even when he spoke quietly. “ _God_ , Thor.”

From the doorway, Thor beamed at them. Thor was always beaming. Only now, he was probably beaming because he saw Tony’s exclamation as his new, finally-acknowledged and rightful title.

The wattage of Thor’s beaming dimmed as he scrutinized Steve. “Are you well, Captain?”

“Just tired,” Steve assured him, making an attempt to pull away from Tony, no doubt _intending_ to look a little less like a wobbly-legged foal.

Thor glanced around, and past them towards the exercise equipment. He nodded in obvious approval. “You have been endeavoring to strengthen yourself. But now you are weary and require something to entertain you while you rest and recover. I have tales without number.” 

“Uh, Thor, buddy…” Tony began, automatically feeling the impulse to protect Steve from Thor’s enthusiastic care.

But Thor—who could be all “Hear Me Roar, Fiends,” one minute, and “Watch Me Pet Kittens” the next—looped an arm around Steve’s back and began to steer him away, already outlining a story that sounded like the Norse equivalent of a Tall Tale, with himself as Paul Bunyan, Mjolnir for an axe, and some “worthy and wild steed” named Allsvarturas the black, equine version of Babe the Blue Ox (also, Thor had apparently ridden in a goat-drawn chariot, which sounded like a hoot to watch). There were even heaps of some kind of hotcake _thing_ involved, that you ate drowned in “a golden, sweet elixir”—and all of it a feast that apparently only Queen Frigga could make correctly. To hear Thor talk, said Norse pancakes and distilled sunlight-and-happiness syrup were _pure_ _magic_. Quite possibly literally so.

“You are invited to come and sit in awe of my adventures as well!” Thor called over his shoulder, and Tony couldn’t tell if the humor in his voice was good-natured irony at his own exaggeration, or just Thor being his usual buoyant self.

“I’m good, thanks!” Tony called back, shaking his head at the contrast of bony Steve next to bulky Thor. It was a minor miracle, the way Thor was managing the whole arm-around-the-shoulders thing without crushing him into jellied Steve.

It was all too easy to underestimate Thor, he decided. But that was part of the guy’s undeniable charisma. Look at him once and he was all gusto, and brawniness, and headlong recklessness; look at him again and the twinkle in his eye was like a sunnier, more carefree reflection of Loki’s mischief. There was, in fact, quite possibly a subtle deviousness to Thor that was so subtle that most people missed it altogether.

And, really, a devious, laughing, Tall Tale-spinning God of Thunder playing _nanny_? There couldn’t possibly be anyone better suited for getting Captain America to take a nap.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for these long waits - I promise this will get completely posted, eventually. :) Things should quite down for me shortly. I hope! LIFE IS CRAZY. And sometimes that's a bummer when all you wanna do is enjoy fandom and fic. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta for her hard work, and thank you so much for all your reviews, guys! They make me so very happy. 
> 
> On to a long-ish section, huzzah. :D

The screen on the wall of the SHEILD meeting room blinked through an array of images. Most of the pictures were tauntingly out-of-focus, hasty snapshots that captured indistinct glimpses of glossy black hide. Slimy, snake-shaped blurs whipped past, or slunk down manholes.

Then they were hit with a close-up that showed the small, inky of eyes of a nocturnal creature set in an eel’s face. An eel’s face with a row of grinning shark’s teeth, and beyond which bristled a set of centipede’s legs.

“Well that’s just…utterly horrifying and _gross_.” Tony looked around at his teammates for confirmation. “Seriously. Tell me I’m not the only one thinking ‘ew’ right now.”

"Most revolting,” Thor agreed, too equably. No doubt he was doing the best he could to accurately quote the high-pitched squealing sound of his internalized reaction. 

“I bet they’re kinda cute when they’re little,” Clint suggested.

“No naming the monsters,” Tony disallowed, responsibly.

“Agent Coulson warned me that you liked commandeering debriefings for your own standup routines, Mr. Stark.” Agent Powell’s voicedidn’t sound accusatory. It had skipped right over that and gone on to blame him for everything wrong with this world, including a personal childhood that clearly hadn’t involved enough hugging. 

“Ah. But did Agent Coulson _also_ tell you I promised to be a perfect little angel while he was gone?” Tony promptly donned angelic look Number Eight: a devilish grin, with a hint of beatific innocence about the eyes, crowned by an overall mien of disregard for authority figures. 

“Yes. He warned me about that, too.” Powell shuffled papers with aplomb. “ _Now_ ,” he cleared his throat for effect, to unspectacular results, “these eel-like creatures have been cropping up throughout the city. They’re all over the place, varying in size from three to ten feet. The larger ones have quills, like porcupines.” He nodded to a new picture on-screen that showed a line of bluish-purple quills running from head to tail along the creature’s spine. “Apparently, they’re tipped with a substance that induces a temporary, localized paralytic effect. They also emit high-pitched noises which can be quite disorienting.”

Now Tony was just impressed. “So, basically, you’re telling me there are _shrieking eels_. In the sewers.” Tony cast a slow smile around at his teammates. “Well, forth to the Cliffs of Insanity.” His eyes alighted on Bruce. “Fezzik.”

Agent Powell looked at him blankly. He was even more outwardly nondescript than Coulson, but instead of embracing it had tried to salvage his blandness with a mustache. It wasn’t working for him. However, worst of all the things Tony was discovering about Powell was that he didn’t just choose invulnerability to jokes, like Fury did. He honestly didn’t appear to _comprehend_ any part of them.

The other possibility was that he hadn’t seen the movie. Which was even more unforgivable.

“There isn’t much else to go on,” Powell persevered, taking himself seriously enough for all of them. “At this point, we don’t have a clue about their origin. They appear to be confining themselves to the sewers almost exclusively for the moment, only venturing out occasionally after dark. The fear, however, is that with all this rain we’ve been getting the overflow will spread this infestation into the waterways.”

The debrief was winding down. Now came the time for all Avengers to get in butt-kicking mode.

But something was missing. The silence was telling, because Tony realized they were all waiting for an absent voice. Even he was. It was time for strategies to start being thrown about, and _his_ job was to mock them and try to punch holes in them—helping to tweak the basic plans, here and there—before finally succumbing to the ultimate soundness of the idea with ill grace and a lot of grumbling. 

That was they way this thing _went_. Steve prototyped the plan of attack, and Tony jumped up and down on said prototype to test its durability against the onslaught of his genius. 

“Where’s Steve?” he demanded, searching the corners of the room.

“Captain Rogers?” Powell asked, clearly mystified, as if Tony were asking for a mythical creature.

“Yeah. Cap. _Steve_. Our Steve. About yea high?” Tony replied tersely, holding up a hand to indicate approximately three feet.

How dare this monkey in a (bad) suit act like he’d erased all memory of the fact that it was a crew of six he was dealing with. _Six_. Since the media debacle, even Fury had agreed that keeping Steve involved in the conversation was kind of a good idea.  Pre- and post-mission briefings seemed like a given, since Steve—whatever else the doctors forbid him to do—could definitely handle sitting at a table.

“He’s kind of easy to misplace these days,” Tony drawled, “but I distinctly remember arriving with him, and he’s got to be around here somewhere.” He made a show of looking under the table before standing up. “Hold that thought.” He left before Powell’s surprise could become indignation.

He found Steve wandering the halls, his hands in his pockets. He had a look of mild earnestness on his face, like he was make-believing the SHIELD facility was a museum, and it was perfectly normal for a guy to just stand there looking appreciative of sterile, utilitarian hallways. 

“Steve, Steve, Steve…” Tony scolded. “Am I going to need have you start holding my hand so you don’t wander off in stores?”

The mild expression evaporated into a genuine look of irritation. The kind of irritation that came from the sting of injured pride. “I’m fine waiting here, Tony. I know there’s no question of me going out in the field like this.” He cleared his throat, and couldn’t completely hide the embarrassment that flickered through his eyes. “I was _informed_ that my presence wouldn’t be required at this meeting. So I’ll…just wait here to see you guys off.”

By “informed” Tony read “rudely told to get lost while the adults talked about Grown Up Stuff.” And Steve had obeyed, like the good soldier he was, however much it might burn to not know what was going on with his team. 

Sure, when it came to the big stuff—the intolerable matters of conscience—Steve rebelled. He went behind enemy lines and took on HYDRA single-handedly, directly going against a superior’s orders. And apparently in _this_ century, he turned right around and just nodded his head and took it when condescending morons belittled his intelligence and competence. 

Well, Steve might not have his priorities quite right, but Tony was a pro at throwing tantrums for any and every occasion, especially when morons belittled Captain America’s intelligence and competence just because he didn’t _look_ the part today. 

Oh, yes. _Someone_ was going to feel the wrath of Stark for this one—he would not be putting up with anyone cutting Steve out like he no longer had anything to contribute. The Avengers had already proven in front of God and the media that they needed their captain on board, in spirit if not physically.

Tony stared hard at Steve. “We didn’t drag you along to put you in SHIELD daycare while Mommy and Daddy are off at work.”

Steve stared back. “Then why am I here?”

“Because, genius, we’ve got a city to protect from huge shrieking eel…things. And they’re _disgusting_. So I’ll be the first to admit I’m open to the idea that an organized approach might be the best way to get this over with ASAP.”

Steve stared at him all the more. “Eels…in the sewers?”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Giant alligators sound pleasant by comparison. But, then, we’re all about taking urban legends to the next level, aren’t we? No little green aliens for us. No, they’ve got to hurl freakin’ lightning bolts before _we’re_ happy. Now come on, Cap. Everyone’s waiting. If you keep wandering off like this, you’ll leave me no choice but to put a bell on you.” 

“Tony…” There was a familiar warning in Steve’s voice. It was the one Steve used when he knew Tony was trying to mess with him, and he was informing Tony he wasn’t oblivious. As the butt of jokes, Steve had proved to be a surprisingly good sport. He even had a deadpan sense of humor all his own. But this time, the warning was layered with less long-suffering leniency, and more steely firmness. It said: _This time I mean it. Stop. Back off._  

Which meant Tony wasn’t handling this right, at all, if he was taking it that way.

Special circumstances called for special humility.

“If I say please, then will you come? _Please_?” 

Steve was satisfactorily taken aback. But he still shook his head, “It’s okay, Tony. Really. I know things can’t stay on hold just because of me. Go slay the monsters in the sewers—I’ll be here.”

Tony wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

However, there was something about Steve’s vulnerable status that automatically, positively _forbid_ anything that even approached manhandling him as a sin worse than…well, kicking puppies, and stealing candy from babies, and all those capital offenses. You didn’t manhandle Captain America just because you _could_.

So Tony didn’t grab an arm, or tug at him, but he did beckon compellingly with two fingers.

“Seriously, Cap, you won’t believe the substitute teacher they’ve thrown at us for this one. I think he might be an android made in the image of SHIELD. Except the mustache part. That’s got to be an error. Facial hair is _so_ not _them_.” He stroked his chin. “Although, there _is_ Fury. Huh.” 

“What are you _talking_ about?” 

“Come see for yourself.” Tony took the risk of striding away with the assumption that Steve would follow out of curiosity to see SHEILD’s mustache, if nothing else.

Steve did follow. He took the empty seat between Thor and Natasha with a ginger expression of expectation on his face, as if he was sure he was about to be thrown out. But Natasha nodded to him, and Thor grinned at him with enough approval to set anyone at ease, because _clearly_ if the god of Thunder gave you such a look you contributed meaning and purpose to the universe.

Such a reception was quite possibly the best protection in the world against being thrown out, and, wisely, Powell just went with the flow. The combined stares of Bruce and Clint—boring into him, as if to impart a telepathic message that _dared_ him to comment—might have also had something to do with his stiff acceptance of the addition. 

Powell cleared his throat again, and Tony was beginning to think it was just because of phlegm now, or annoyance. Or annoyance and phlegm. On screen, he pulled up a map of the city, with a grid of the sewer system overlaid and red dots marking eel sightings. “The first one was found in Chelsea, on 9th avenue, but now they’re being found as far away as the Bronx.”

He flipped through reports, rapid-fire. There were more shots, from which it could be ascertained that they were most definitely not “kinda cute” when they were little. The weren’t even remotely cute. They were more like nightmarish black tadpoles with needle teeth and a prickle of unhardened fin-like quills protruding from their spines.  

Thor was beginning to look decidedly smash-happy. Clint was cracking his knuckles. Natasha just looked pleasantly lethal. The curl of distaste on Bruce’s lips made it apparent he was beginning to think “ew,” too, which probably meant the Other Guy was of the same mindset as Thor. Definitely time to smash. 

“So let’s go do this thing,” Tony announced.

“No, wait. We need a plan of attack.”

For once, Steve’s interruption was like music to his ears. Tony wouldn’t lie—to himself, at least. To anyone else who might ask, it was as annoying as ever to have their fun hijacked by Captain Caution.

“Can you bring up the other reports made in Chelsea?” Steve addressed Powell, not questioning, but demanding answers with authority. Something warmed inside Tony at the sight: the squared shoulders, the jaw set in determination, and the flinty look of Captain America in full-on tactician mode. Who cared if it was the miniature version?

It just made it that much more heart-warming to watch Powell snap to attention as the atmosphere of the room changed, turned into the kind of urgent planning mode the Avengers were used to.

Steve scanned the reports Powell promptly produced. “Anything in Clinton?”

Powell continued to comply, fumbling to supply information as fast as Steve demanded it—and Tony began to see the pattern Steve was painting for them.

“Now show me any sightings you’ve got from the Harlem area.”

There wasn’t a picture with the report Powell brought up, just a description of a seven foot monster that had sent an eighty-nine-year-old man to the hospital with a swat of its quilled tail. Steve nodded, as if it was exactly what he’d been expecting.

“You on to something, Cap?” Tony prodded.

If Steve noticed Tony’s unprecedented encouragement, he didn’t acknowledge it.  “These sightings only started two days ago, but have since changed rapidly from a handful of isolated incidents into an obvious infestation, and the size and maturity of these things seems to be increasing by the hour.” He pointed to the map, drawing an imaginary circle around the area of Chelsea and Midtown South Central. “But all of the sightings in this area are consistently smaller—juveniles, even compared to the ones appearing in the Theater District. They get larger and more dangerous the further north you head.”

“But the ones in East Village…” Powell began.

“They’re getting larger again. That’s _it_ —it’s a radius, spreading out from a central point,” Steve pointed again emphatically towards the bull’s-eye area he’d just indicated. “That’s where they’re coming from. There’s got to be some nest. A spawning bed of some kind. As fast as they’re multiplying, we _need_ to deal with the source first. Otherwise it’d just be damage control, not actually stopping the problem.” 

“So we find the queen of the hive, and lob off her head," Tony concluded.

“Or the _queens_ , plural,” Natasha advised.

“A disquieting thought to ponder as we head off to meet our doom, thank you,” Tony muttered.

More red dots were popping up on the map as they spoke, a feverish rash of them materializing around Manhattan. Powell brought up a new report: a five-year-old girl had been bitten. Apparently the quills weren’t the only things tipped with nasty side-effects.

“Thor, Natasha,” Steve said quietly, in a way that drew all eyes, “find that nest and do whatever it takes. Bruce, Clint, Tony—head where they’re hitting the hardest, spread out and take care of the larger ones. Try to keep them within their current perimeter.” 

“Aye-aye, Cap.” Clint gave a cocky salute.

“ _Now_ let’s do this thing, for real,” Tony added. 

They all rose, including Steve.

“Captain Rogers,” Powell’s voice rose in pitch, a combination of anxiety and frustration, “you are _not_ to leave this facility.”

Steve turned on his heel to glare down Powell—and it was just Powell’s lucky day, because he got the package deal on glares. They’d _all_ heard the asinine censure in his reprimand, loud and clear, and entirely too condescending to _possibly_ be directed at Steve. Except it _had_ beendirected at Steve. 

Thor looked ready to cause an incident, Bruce’s eyes shone faintly green, and Clint and Natasha were doing that little synchronized piranha-smile they had down so well, that was really not sweet or endearing at all. Except maybe a little, right then, when aimed at Powell.

“I only intend to see my team off, Agent Powell.” Steve was coolly collected, respectful, dignified. “I am _aware_ that I would only be a liability in the field.”

And the Avengers silently dared Agent Powell to say another belittling word on matter.

Steve led his team out of the room, and if it pained him stay behind, his nod of farewell, and resolute, “Godspeed, Avengers,” didn’t betray it.

 

* * *

 

“Really, doc, it’s fine— _I’m_ fine. It’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ll just be…”

“ _Clint_.”

Cap’s voice carried the power to kill an argument dead in its tracks, nothing changed there. But he kept the volume moderate as he strode down the long line of medical beds towards where Clint was seated, being mauled by a steely-eyed nurse and a tolerantly insistent doctor. They were worse than the shrieking eels.

Clint was prepared to willfully aggravate nurses and doctors all night, but he hadn’t been planning on needing to. Evasion was a familiar game. Even Doctor Hayden, a bear of a man who could’ve doubled as an orderly (or a bouncer), was only a single wall standing between him and freedom, one to be dodged around at the opportune moment. 

But here came the real snag. Because when abruptly confronted by the comparatively negligible obstacle of a lightweight Cap barring his way, resistance capitulated to a battle already lost.

Steve’s eyes raked over him, taking in the scrapes across his neck and face. Clint could feel the prickle of them, like a bad case of road rash, whenever he twitched a muscle in his face. It was an annoyance more than anything. 

Some forces of nature, however, were not to be denied. Steve, spotting an injured teammate attempting to flee care, became the border collie who espied a rebel sheep wandering from the flock.

It didn’t matter in the slightest that none of them were sheep, or that their collective herd instincts amounted to zilch. It didn’t matter, not when Steve the wonder-herder arrived on the scene.

So Clint surrendered to his assessment, dutifully turning enough to give Steve a view of the deeper cuts—still scrapes, really—that ran across right side of his back.

“They’re superficial, Cap,” he assured him. 

“He _does_ have a concussion,” Doctor Hayden inserted, cautionary, “and there’s no telling what foreign matter might be infecting those cuts. The sewers are a perfect breeding ground for germs—never mind the creatures involved.”

Steve looked from Hayden to Clint. “Let them finish, Clint.”

“Yeah…yeah. Fine.” Even to his own ears he sounded weary. Yet more proof that all good things came to an end, including adrenaline. He just usually preferred to deal with the crash in private.

But if anything could distract him from the crash, it was the sight of scrawny Steve—stern, unyielding, border collie Steve—standing next to the serene Hayden—who was looking reserved, and by contrast to Steve, unobtrusive for all his bulk.

The nurse resumed her dabbing, poking, and bandaging, and with a few more words of caution, Mount Hayden left Clint to her tender care, and Steve’s clearly attentive supervision.

“What’s going on?” Steve pressed. “Everyone’s in an uproar out there. Agents are saying Stark’s on the warpath.”

“You can say that again. And it’s not just Tony. I could go a few rounds with Powell, myself.”

Steve’s brows drew sharply together. “What happened?”

“Powell’s _initiative_ , that’s what.” Clint knew he sounded murderous. Perfect. “He sent in ‘backup’ in the middle of the fight, with about a thirty second heads-up.”

“Backup?”

“Not police, not the National Guard. Most of them were busy manning the perimeter to keep the infestation from spreading—which is great, no problem. Good call. But then Powell sent in drones. Some kind of submersible crawler—initially used as a dredge for removing sludge and buildup in sewers, tanks, that sort of thing. They retrofitted them to pack quite the _theoretical_ punch.” Clint glared daggers at the helpless, innocent wall opposite him. “I don’t like going underground to begin with, Cap. Closed spaces, I can do. But this…this was fighting on _their_ home turf. No high ground to be had, and half the time I was shooting blind. My ability to home in on them was messed up down there, with all the echoes, the water and the curved walls. As much as we could, we drove them out for Tony to take out from above, but…” he trailed off, images of the last hours blurring together into a dank, musty-smelling, high-speed slideshow of wriggling black bodies, and razor teeth, and shrieks to set your teeth on edge.

“The drones?” Steve guided him back to the point.

“They complicated things even more.” Clint could’ve spewed out ten variations of blasphemy, any of which would’ve eloquently expressed his feelings towards Powell. But he found he really didn’t have the energy. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the way Steve’s steady, candid eyes rested on him with piercing intensity.                                                                      

“The drones…” Clint began again, lifting his arm so the nurse could secure the gauze around his shoulder by winding it under his arm. “They weren’t ready. Tony took a look at the prototypes just a few weeks ago and said as much—but I guess Powell was too excited to come to the rescue with his fancy new toys.”

“Maybe he assumed Tony was just being arrogant. He doesn’t really like to give his blessing on _anything_ he didn’t create himself.”

“There is that,” Clint allowed. “But Tony was right this time, they weren’t nearly ready. Sure, they armed them to the teeth, and even gave them a fairly impressive level of AI. Heat-seeking capabilities. Backup night-vision. All of it nice—again, in _theory_. In reality, let’s just say I was lucky I only got caught in a blast that wasn’t aimed, in error, directly at me. Even a glancing hit sent me sprawling flat on my back. But, hey, it was just one of the _cute_ little eels that crawled down my shirt, and on the bright side at least their talons don’t have the same paralytic agent on them as the quills and teeth.”

Steve grimaced. “And the not-so-lucky incidents?”

“Involved electricity and water. Apparently the Little Drones that Couldn’t decided plasma guns get _boring_. Or maybe that was just _someone_ holding a remote somewhere who wanted to try out all the settings. Powell recalled them, but not before they sent a couple of good soldiers to the hospital. None of our team, thank God. Well,” he glanced at his shoulder, “discounting me, because I’m fine, really. All this medical attention is just to make you feel better, because you know I love you, Cap.” 

Steve didn’t smile at the jibe. The muscles along his jaw worked, and the intensity and purpose in his eyes coalesced into something dangerous. “What’s the status on the eels?”                           

“Contained, more or less. Nat and Thor found a nest, alright, and one ugly queen, spawning hundreds of the things under 9th avenue. The mother-of-all-eels is officially jelly now. After that, the IQ of the rest seemed to plummet.” He shrugged his good shoulder. “Hive mind, maybe? Would make sense. They’re not shrieking any more—it’s like communications just went offline when Mom got squished.” Clint offered a grim smile. “But we’ll be doing sweeps for days, if not weeks. Even then, I’m thinking we’ve got a brand-new urban legend on our hands, with a good basis in reality to back it up. No one’s ever going to be completely convinced they’re gone now.” 

Steve nodded, but his gaze was distant, cataloging facts and pertinent information, and moving on to the next step. “But the rest of the team, they _are_ okay?”

“Yeah. Bumps and bruises all around, but nothing worse. Powell called an immediate debriefing, no doubt preemptively trying to start a civilized discussion, to keep a handle on this and forestall his own murder.” The nurse finished, and tried to talk to him about pain-killers and something anti-inflammatory, but Clint waved her off with a vaguely-polite refusal as Steve turned away. “Cap? Where are you…”

“I’ve got business to take care of.”

“I’m coming.” Clint slipped off the table, making it clear by his expression that there was nothing Steve could say that would make him stay behind.

On his way out he did accept an exasperated look, and SHIELD-issue shirt, from the nurse.

They had plenty of warning before joining the “debrief.” Steve was right, there was an atmosphere of tension in the hall outside, where agents hurried by, never disturbing the room where the Avengers were _assessing_ their day. Nothing escaped through the soundproofed door, but it was easy to imagine the sound of exchanged canon fire. 

Steve didn’t bother knocking, and for a moment no one seemed to notice their entrance, anyway.

Powell wasn’t the only SHIELD agent present (discounting Natasha and Clint, who weren’t exactly there as representatives of the agency). The man seated near the head of the table with the Stark tablet in hand was undoubtedly just there to take the minutes, because the meeting was just _that_ formal and protocol-driven. As for the other anonymous agent, a blond-haired woman with her hands clasped calmly behind her back, standing blank-faced behind Powell’s chair, she was there for kicks. Obviously. Also probably because she looked scarier than Powell. 

The Avengers were all seated, at least, but that was where friendliness began and ended. The precariousness of the arrangement was painted on every face, from Natasha’s glittering eyes to Bruce’s exhausted and too-blank features to Thor’s regal displeasure. Then there was Tony, who was gripping the arms of his chair like they were temporary proxies for Powell’s neck. The adrenaline clearly hadn’t crashed for him. Or possibly it had, and what passed for vibrating with homicidal intention was actually a case of the post-battle shakes (with a flourish of homicidal intention on top for good measure).

Whatever Powell was saying as they entered, he was using a calming voice that would’ve made a yoga instructor jealous. The specifics passed completely over Clint’s head. He was too focused on being the fixed sentinel at Steve’s shoulder. Maybe he should’ve felt farcical, positioned there on standby, letting Steve take the aggressive stance, when he was a head taller, and plenty broader in the shoulders. But it didn’t strike him that way at all. It just meant he was able to smirk over Steve’s shoulder at the way Powell whipped around when Steve spoke his name.

“Captain Rogers,” Powell said, still calmly. “Agent Barton. Please, have a seat. We were just debriefing.”

At least Powell was learning that ousting one of the team wasn’t as easy as a flick of his finger, no matter how much of a liability he might deem one of them had become. He might be _thinking_ “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” but he wasn’t saying it. So he had some sense of self-preservation, then.

“I’ll stand, thanks.” Steve’s pleasantness was brittle.

“ _Please_ , Captain Rogers. I insist.” Powell was growing increasingly frustrated now, the “please” a superficial nicety that really meant _You Try My Patience._ And so much for that self-preservation. Powell once again made the mistake of assuming he was addressing a small and wayward child.

It made Clint wonder if anyone had filled the guy in on the fact that Captain Rogers equaled Captain America, or if Powell simply didn’t believe that the small man in front of him really was one and the same—like at the very least, Steve Rogers must’ve lost brain mass as well as muscle mass. Or maybe Powell was perfectly aware who Steve was, and simply didn’t care now that Steve was in no place to be—in his opinion—useful. It was maddening, because if Steve had been standing there missing a limb, or otherwise disabled from war but still essentially Erskine’s super soldier, he’d have been treated like the war hero he was. He’d still have been afforded the same respect. Or he should’ve been.

Who knew, with Powell, maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Clawing at him was the infuriating knowledge that Coulson wouldn’t have stood for any of this if he’d been there. For that matter, blunt and practical as he was, _Fury_ wouldn’t have stood for this. Maybe leaving Powell in charge of this op was their strategy to teach the Avengers to appreciate the devil they knew. Then again, considering the damage the drones could’ve done, it seemed unlikely Fury would’ve risked that much just to prove a point.

Regardless, the point was being made.

But before Powell’s words could spark action on a larger scale from the team, Steve stepped closer to Powell, hands clenched at his sides tight enough for the knuckles to show white. Clint had never seen him so seething, so cold with rage. Or maybe he had, just never so underscored. Because apparently he hadn’t done justice to the mental picture at all when he’d tried imagining what pre-serum Steve, facing down a bully, might’ve really looked like. He’d underestimated both the amount of scrawniness involved and the sheer ferocity.

“You sat here and listened to the plan. The plan that everyone _agreed_ on.” Steve paused, nostrils flaring with heavy, angry inhalations.  “And then you sent my team out there to do a job—to save lives, and hopefully to keep their _own_ lives in the process, by following that plan.”

“Plans need to stay flexible. Adaptable,” Powell snapped. “Every good tactician knows that.”

“ _They_ were supposed to do the adapting. The people who were actually _in the situation_ and knew what was going on.” Steve’s hand shot out to point to the rest of the Avengers sitting around the table, thin arm steady, and sure, and not something to laugh at. “They _were_ adapting. That’s what this team _does_. We’ve been there before. We know each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and how to use those strengths, and defend those weaknesses. You messed with that balance when you sent in those drones. You changed the equation without forewarning, and as a result you injured our own people, and could’ve killed them. You could have _killed_ one of _my team_.” His teeth were bared as he took yet another step closer to Powell. “And you had better pray to God that I never see you pulling a stunt like that on my people again.”

When Steve pulled out words like “pray to God,” he didn’t do it casually. He meant it with burning conviction. He meant all of it.

Powell’s eyes were flat, his voice monotone with an edge of warning. “You’re forgetting, Captain Rogers, that as of two months ago your status in this initiative became highly uncertain. I am doing you a favor by allowing you to be present during these meetings, but I do not answer to you, and the Avengers do not belong to you. They are not _your_ team.”

Clint narrowed his eyes, and sensedhis teammates tensing along with him. There was something about the confrontation up until now that had demanded silence—even from Tony—but that didn’t mean they were detached bystanders.

If the room had been hot with friction before, now it was a sauna.

Then Powell made the real _crème de la crème_ of judgment calls: his crowing moment of stupid in a long succession of stupid decisions. As Steve took a step forward, Powell yelped at the agents beside him to “contain” the situation, by which he presumably meant for them to _contain_ all ninety-five pounds, five-foot-odd of furious Steve Rogers before Steve could glower him down to a heap of ash.   

Steve might not have been much to look at like he was then, but especially after what he’d just seen there was no doubt in Clint’s mind that Steve Rogers in any condition could still put up a good fight.

Thing was, Steve didn’t swing on the agents. Even mad, he was more level-headed right now than that. But when an agent grabbed him by either arm he stiffened—strung tight, not intimidated, and still angry. But intimidated or not, it was restraint enough to hold him. Clint could tell the second that mortification hit by the way Steve’s eyes clouded, registering the faint shock of flexing muscles that no longer possessed the strength even to defend _himself_. It was like he’d forgotten his new limitations; forgotten he couldn’t shrug the restraint off later, at will.

That was when he really started to struggle to pull away from them, with the desperation of the acutely claustrophobic—forced to action by the panic of an overwhelming _need_ not to be powerless. He demanded, “ _Let go_ ,” sternly. If there was a faint thread of alarm there, it was probably inaudible to anyone who didn’t know him well.

For a second, Clint assumed he was the one who’d growled first. After all, the sound had been building in his throat, the precursor to the threats he was still finding the words for.

But, no. That’d be Thor, growling for all the world like a big cat. A lion, definitely. He stood with murder in his eyes, and the rest of the team stood with him.

“Unhand the Captain, at once.”

You never wanted to hear Thor aim that low, dark, venom-filled tone at you, Clint decided. If you earned that tone and that look, your options were limited to shooting yourself in the head before he could get his hands on you to inflict pain and suffering, or to groveling quickly and hoping for mercy. 

The agents didn’t grovel, but they did look duly ready to wet themselves. Apart from the terror, however, their reflexive responses were bad. Very bad. Not only did they fail to opt for either option A, or B, but apparently option C didn’t involve a proper job of fleeing, either.

They stumbled back a step, still gripping Steve by the arms, and Thor roared: “You will obey at once!”

“I’d listen, kids,” Tony sneered. “I’d listen good.”

“ _No_. Stop this. Stop, all of you.” Powell stood, practically trembling with rage—and, yeah, there was a satisfying amount of terror there, too, at the realization of just how quickly the situation was sliding out of control. But he was still trying to sustain outrage to cover it. “I would’ve thought this kind of tantrum throwing was beneath the Avengers.”

Tony “Ha”-ed at that idea with proper contempt. 

“We’ve had a bad day,” Natasha said darkly, and she didn’t have to add that tantrum throwing should be the least of Powell’s worries.

“A _really_ bad day.” Bruce’s voice was flat, with a wealth of meaning.

“I make no child’s idle threat,” Thor rumbled, the sound a reminder and promise of what he could wield. “You will release the Captain immediately, or you will assuredly regret it.”

By this point, Steve had gone still with a look of resignation on his face that bordered on dejection—and Clint couldn’t hold himself back any longer. The rest of the team had already said what needed saying. He took a step forward to physically remove the agents’ hands from Steve’s arms, and found Thor already moving on the same impulse.

It was at that pivotal moment that Coulson entered the room. In the space of time it took for Clint and Thor to pause in their onslaught and register his presence, Coulson skipped right over being surprised and went straight to the “assessment” and “restoring order” stages of consternation. 

“Avengers, _stand down_.” Before Powell could begin to preen with self-righteous satisfaction, Coulson gaze shot from assessing him to assessing Steve, and he added coolly: “And you two, release Captain Rogers immediately.”

No matter what he said after that, Coulson was on the side of the angels, because the agents snapped out of their paralysis and obeyed, leaving Steve to stand free, if with battered pride.

“Now, Agent Powell,” Coulson continued, eyes scanning the panorama of impassioned expressions that surrounded him, “I’d suggest you give me an _accurate_ account of what I’ve just walked into, before this debriefing comes to a regrettable end.”

“I…” Powell began. “We had a misunderstanding. Miscommunication. Things got out of hand.”

Tony snorted. 

Coulson raised an eyebrow. “Yes. I can see that, Agent Powell. But right now I’m wondering what form of _miscommunication_ warranted manhandling Captain Rogers.”

Steve face might be still hot with embarrassment and anger, but he kept his head up. “I lost my temper.” It was proud, honest, and unrepentant.

Clint knew he could trust Coulson to look around at the number of hot tempers in the room and come to the conclusion that Steve hadn’t been alone. He still felt the need to say something—started to protest, along with Tony, Natasha, and Bruce—but it was Thor whose succinct explanation drowned out the rest.

“Son of Coul, this man played us falsely in battle today, and the Captain sought to warn him against repeating his actions.”

Coulson looked at Powell, who stood, hands gripping the edge of the table. “I sent in a couple of drones,” he supplied defensively, in response to Coulson’s look, “they might not have been _quite_ ready…”

“Oh, man up already, Powell, and quit your sniveling,” Tony derided. “Call your brilliant bit of ad-libbing like it was: a complete _disaster_. Even if your manic little sewer crabs _had_ been ready—which I distinctly recall telling you people they were _not_ —you don’t just throw that sort of thing at your own people. Especially when we were already well on the way to getting things under control!”

“I’ve already gotten the lecture from Captain Rogers, _thank you_ , Mr. Stark,” Powell griped.

Coulson smiled for the first time since entering the room. A slow, cheerful smile, full of comprehension. It moved from Steve to rest upon Powell with less pleasantness. “And that would be when you ordered your agents to restrain Captain Rogers. When he began to…lecture you for endangering his team by sending in unsafe drone prototypes?”

Powell swallowed. “He was…”

“Very angry,” Steve volunteered. “Like I said, I lost my temper. I get angry when people endanger my team.”

Coulson was irreproachably practical, and almost kindly, when he addressed Powell again: “You might want to get used to dealing with _angry_ , Agent Powell, because I can tell you with the certainty of experience that _overjoyed_ is hardly going to be the Council’s reaction to this news. And I would really prefer not to comment on how Commander Fury is likely to take it, either. Suffice it to say, you were not _his_ recommendation for temporary oversight of this initiative, and I doubt you’ll be receiving the opportunity to repeat your abuse of authority any time in the near future. A full and detailed report would be appreciated as soon as possible, for the sake of expediting disciplinary action.”

Powell wilted in the spotlight. But he had one more ace up his sleeve. He pointed at Steve. “He _threatened_ me.”

It would’ve been easy to comment on Steve’s current size, and what a ludicrous whiner that last ditch accusation would’ve made him look on paper. But Coulson wasn’t about to say anything so disparaging about Steve. Instead, he replied with supreme equanimity, “If you think filing a complaint against Captain Rogers will help your cause, then feel free to send the paperwork to me along with your report.”

“Because making petty accusations against Captain America is a _brilliant_ way to win sympathy, and get back your reputation as a real trustworthy kind of guy,” Clint muttered under his breath, with a sneer of contempt for Powell.

Powell looked blankly around. “Captain Rogers is no longer…” he stopped himself. For the first time it finally seemed to truly dawn upon him that he was surrounded by a group very angry, very impulsive people. The kind of very angry and impulsive people who spent their free time doing more than just skirting the edges of nonconformity, and who in their “paid” time committed violence on a regular basis.

Furthermore, Coulson, the voice of reason and responsibility, was looking distinctly icy, himself.

Without another word, Powell made a hasty tactical retreat—the other two SHIELD agents following—and Natasha had to put a hand on Thor’s shoulder to keep him from automatically stalking after them. That was a duel Clint would’ve liked to watch.

“I highly doubt that complaint will be filed in the end, Captain,” Coulson remarked.

Steve gave a lopsided smile, worn around the edges but genuine. “We’ve missed you around here, Agent Coulson.”

Coulson sighed, but not, Clint thought, with discontent. “I told Commander Fury I couldn’t afford a vacation. Now, to the matter of these _eels_ I’ve been hearing so much about…”

 


	7. Chapter 7

A few days after the shrieking eel incident, they caught a break in deciphering the legacy Radner had left Steve. A break that brought Tony close to breaking necks.

But _first_ he’d found Steve to tell him the good news. He was in the kitchen, trying to do justice to a Thor-sized omelet—one that was undoubtedly Thor-endorsed, if not Thor-made. Normally, Tony would paused to laugh, or at least snigger a little, at the sight of Steve looking so woebegone about the simple task of making it through breakfast. A breakfast that, admittedly, looked like it couldn’t possibly fit inside Steve’s stomach without posing a health risk, or at least the risk of sending him into a cheese-induced coma.

But, not only did Tony fully concur with Thor’s mission (Feed Steve, and then Feed Steve Some More, And then Feed Steve _Some More_ ), but today he was also on a mission (Make Steve Look Less Like His Life is Irreparably Broken).

“I’m a genius,” Tony announced, sing-song, without preamble.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “And yet it took you this long to figure that out.”

Tony “pfft”ed with a wave of his hand. “That? That was just context.”

“Context,” Steve repeated blankly, poking at a piece of basil with the tip of his fork. “Sounded more like a personal jingle.”

“I don’t do ‘ _jingles_.’” Tony looked coolly down his nose at the thought. Although “genius” would most definitely have made it into the lyrics somewhere if he _had_ done jingles. “And you should eat your veggies. You’re Captain America, for crying out loud. The last time I checked the news Captain America ate his veggies religiously. I’m pretty sure they’re, like, your favorite food. You’d rather have broccoli than fillet mignon. Every kid knows that. Or at least their moms do.”

Steve snorted softly at that. “Yeah, well, right now I’m just Steve Rogers. And I don’t think I particularly like basil.”

“Eh. We should probably be focusing on the spinach, anyway. Thor couldn’t have known. You know—about Popeye and all.”

“Yes, Tony. I got that reference,” Steve informed him, without any of the enthusiasm that had made Tony roll his eyes the first time he’d watched Captain America chime in like he was some overzealous schoolboy. The kind of overzealous schoolboy who responded to every question by raising his hand and volunteering, “Oh, I know! I do! I do! Pick me!”—and thus basically made all his classmates _hate his guts_ by being so bright-eyed and attentive about bettering himself with _education._ (Basically, cue all the teacher’s pet jokes. The teacher in question clearly being Fury.)

But right now Steve was looking much more like the quiet kid who sat in a corner of the yard reading a book, and still managed to get picked on at recess by playing chivalrous knight to some unfortunate who had “Bully Fodder” stamped all over him or herself even more blatantly than Steve. A feat which really had to take some doing.

“I would’ve knocked their lights out,” Ton vowed absently.

Steve nearly choked on his piece of dutifully sampled basil. “What?”

“You know, the bullies at the theoretical school we would’ve attended together, had our timelines coincided in an alternate universe—I wouldn’t knocked their lights out. I’m a nerd, right? And outcasts stick together. Only, naturally, I still would’ve definitely been higher up the food-chain then you.” Tony shrugged modestly. “So, after you defended the littlest guy, I would’ve defended _you_. Domino effect.” Which was a horrible analogy, in hindsight, considering all the dominos fell in the process of knocking down the next domino.

Steve looked touched, but it was also just conceivable that he just thought that _Tony_ was touched in the _head_.

“Okay,” Steve said slowly, cautiously, like he wasn’t sure what non-sequitur diving board Tony might jump off of next. “Thanks. Theoretically?”

“You’re welcome. Theoretically.”

Steve now looked considerably cheered up. Or at least he looked like he was having a pleasant little chuckle at Tony’s expense. Same difference, probably, in the Steve Rogers book of _What Qualifies as Funny_.

It was equally possible he was just relishing the wishful thought of fighting bullies side-by-side with a certified genius. Yeah. It was probably that.

Come to think of it, though, they were kind of fulfilling that schoolyard dream, only on a much larger scale, with bullies imported all the way from outer space. Bullies who wanted to steal a planet instead of lunch money.

“You look like you came here with something important to say,” Steve pointed out.

“I always arrive with something important to say.”

“What is it, Tony?”

“News.” For some inexplicable reason, Tony felt a wave of apprehension. Maybe he should’ve waited—waited until he knew more. But, no. Steve deserved the breaking news for his own case.

“They did okay on the proxies,” Tony grumbled. “And the encryption. I mean, for _clearly_ being complete amateurs, they did almost decently. Radner was just enough of a paranoid freak to be halfway thorough about covering his tracks. Not that it fooled me for a minute once I had all the relevant data.” He curled his lip in disgust. “I didn’t even realize until yesterday that there was something to be traced, because an idiot from tech—Ken, or Hal, or Dudley, or something—made the assumption that I didn’t need to be informed of what his moronic deductive skills deemed an _unimportant_ email receipt for welding equipment, not to mention the—” 

“—I’m eating, Tony,” Steve interrupted, almost kindly, but definitely pointedly, “and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tony realized the good news needed to broadcast in English if was going to be received as more than babble.

He afforded himself the luxury of being disgruntled for a moment, before relinquishing the need to sing his own praises in detail. “Right, no technobabble on an empty stomach.” He crossed his arms, summarizing loftily, “Radner has his own storage garage. And _I_ know where it _is_.”

Steve lit up in a way that Tony refused to admit was just as rewarding as he’d anticipated. He even finished half of the omelet.

But that conversation was where self-congratulations started and ended.

The end of the day, and a thorough search and seizure of the contents of the storage shed, revealed nothing. Or, rather, it revealed a very twisted metal skeleton of a machine. A metal _thing_ that looked vaguely like some hulking, big rigged-up dentist’s chair-cum-torture-device. It was a find that was everything, and nothing. Everything, because the twisted hunk of metal was their answer; nothing, because their answer wasn’t giving them much to actually use to help them reverse whatever the thing had—supposedly, presumably—done to Steve. The thing was stripped, dismantled, affording them only trace amounts of a sedative inside a mounted syringe. Radner’s “brilliance” had been just radiant enough to cause damage—stealing the effects of the serum without effectively transferring them to himself, or leaving a scrap of anything for them to go on.

As maddening as it was to admit it, Tony felt like he was staring down a dead end street.

And, from the look in Steve’s eyes, the feeling was mutual.

 

* * *

 

Pepper had dubbed the room Tony’s “sulking lounge.” Only she said it like it was in capitals: Sulking Lounge. Tony Stark’s Personal Sulking Lounge.

JARVIS had even tried getting away with calling it that ( _once_ ). Which was just taking unsubtle pejoratives to uncalled-for lengths. Besides, to call his brooding contemplations upon a spiteful universe “sulking” was like calling Marco Polo a tourist.

Pepper probably just got the impression of sulking because his contemplations often involved skipping the process of mixing a margarita or a martini, and heading straight for the tequila and vermouth.

Tonight, though, Tony was just in search of a reason to wander; remembering rooms he hadn’t had a reason to visit for weeks or months, looking for something to entertain him.

As so often happened when he wandered aimlessly, he just wound up in the Sulking Lounge by default.

The room itself was like some unconscious symbolic tribute to the arc reactor: a perfect circle, its furnishings sleekly customized to fit. There was the bar, directly opposite the door when you stepped in, a shrine to its backlit rows of color- and size-varied bottles. To the right was a modular set of curved Italian leather couches, white, with sharp lines, and tufted cushions. To the left, floor-to-ceiling windows stared out at the city.

It was his favorite insomnia-wandering destination when he wanted solitude. His new houseguests preferred rec rooms, kitchens, and gyms. They were rubbing off on him, too, drawing him into their _adorable_ little predilection for cozy ambiance.

But sometimes he just needed a shot of something strong, in the company of luxury. Impersonal surroundings were cool, uncluttered, simple and tidy, without a place for nostalgia to hide. If the word _soulless_ had come to mind as a description for the room, late one night, he dismissed it as excessively anthropomorphic—idle conjecture brought on by piqué and the burden of a genii temperament.

Tony stood in the hall, staring in, realizing that somewhere along the way, use of the Sulking Lounge had dwindled down to the odd occasion. Privately, he just might allow that the decline had _something_ to do with the influence of the domesticity-starved children he called teammates. They might each have their own level to hide out in now, but keeping them from converging together for impromptu TV nights and popcorn dinners was like…well, like, impossible.

The way Steve’s silent contentment seemed to reign over such gatherings had nothing whatsoever to do with the initial magnetic draw of such moments of touchy-feely-happy-togetherness. Tony was sure of it. Just like he was certain that seeing mini-Steve smile, and relax, and forget to worry, was totally not the team’s new universal Achilles Heel.

But tonight was a night for the bizarre, clearly. Because the moment Tony stepped into the lounge he was taken aback to find his sanctuary disturbed. By Steve.

If Steve was the last person on earth he would have expected to find there, then a glass of amber liquid was the last thing he’d expected to find in Steve’s hand. The quarter-full glass sat precariously balanced on one knee, encircled loosely by long fingers. Steve wasn’t really _sitting_ on the couch. He looked more like a shipwrecked castaway: smashed against the rocks and sent sprawling to land haphazardly on shore where he might.

And wasn’t “smashed” just the word of the hour.

The freakin’ _featherweight_ had a death wish—in the form of a bottle of eighty-proof Jameson whiskey—sitting in front of him on the half-crescent glass top of the coffee table. 

“Savor it. That stuff’s expensive,” Tony said peevishly, not because the expense was an object. Steve could drink vintage wine out of a Dixie cup, or Kool-Aid out a crystal goblet, or Sunny D straight from the bottle. If that was Captain America’s idea of a treat, far be it from him to cramp his style.

Tony was _peeved_ because his first instinct was to be ticked-off with Steve, to bark at him to knock it off. Seeing that kind of discomposed, _shoddy_ behavior from Steve was simply demoralizing. 

However, Tony was keenly aware of how hypocritical it would’ve been to lay into Steve for behaving in exactly the same way he _,_ himself, was accustomed to behaving. That was just it, though. Being a profligate rake was _his_ act, _his_ character flaw. Not Steve’s. How dare he indulge in someone else’s personal, patented vice.

Steve’s head had snapped up at his words, and then he’d squinted at Tony, blinking a few times. He retorted with belligerence: “There wasn’t any schnapps.” 

“A sin, certainly,” Tony allowed, cautiously. A sudden sensation came over him of treading upon uncertain ground.

Steve’s head sagged again. He had one boneless arm hooked over the arm of the couch, and the rest of his upper body lolled after it at the same spine-defying angle. Both legs were kicked out in a sprawl, looking flexible as spaghetti. His clothes were a creased and crumpled wreck, and, as Tony gawked openly, he spotted the shadow of blond stubble along his jaw. Actual stubble. 

The hobo look didn’t suit him at all, Tony decided.

Stubble, and Irish whiskey, and rumpled clothes, and _bad posture_ —all showcased by Steve Rogers. Tony decided that ground really didn’t come much _more_ uncertain than that. Give him a Richter scale level ten earthquake any day over Steve Rogers pretending he was Tony Stark.

“I was looking for schnapps,” Steve complained again, almost absently.

“How about some Sprite instead? Apple juice? Coffee?” Tony scrolled hopefully through the counter-offers.

Steve had never glared at him like that before. Not like _that_. Like laziness and exhaustion instead of morals were the only thing holding him back from murder.

“I’m an adult, Tony. And I’m not _that_ drunk. Yet.”

“Being drunk is overrated.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“Okay. So hangovers are _under-_ anticipated.”

“I’ll live.”

Tony wasn’t so sure. Maybe he’d just had his fill of alternately watching Steve being wasted by illness, or nearly asphyxiated by the exertion of a half-hour jog, or restrained by people Captain America could’ve shooed away with a finger just a few months ago. But something inside Tony cringed with genuine concern over the idea of Steve suffering through an unnecessary bout of malaise, and nausea, and headaches. Steve didn’t need to do that to _himself,_ not when the world was so trigger-happy about taking shots at him already.

“Look, ah, Steve…” he began his trek across eggshells. He wasn’t going to bring up the proverbial elephant sitting in the corner. The one named Radner. He wasn’t going to acknowledge the guilt he felt for getting Steve’s hopes up—and now watching said hopes take a nosedive.

“I _want_ to get drunk, okay?” Steve cut him off. Then, staring down into the depths of his glass, added less harshly, almost plaintively: “I couldn’t, before, when I woke up. And now I can, and I just… I need this. I’ve needed this for a while. S’long overdue, _okay_?”

“Okay. Sure…sure. That’s fine.”

Tony really wasn’t okay with it, and there was something distinctly not “fine” about Steve sitting there in _his_ Sulking Lounge, getting willfully, aggressively drunk. Also, doctors had cited “heart trouble” regarding Steve, enough to make a lasting impression on Tony, and on those grounds alone he really should’ve wrested the glass away by force. But he’d watched Steve being bullied and manhandled yesterday—watched him stand there looking proud, and humiliated, and _ashamed_ —and he wasn’t eager to do anything to undermine Steve’s right to be treated like an adult.

He refused to be responsible for putting that drowning look of helplessness on Steve’s face, and he dared anyone else to do it again, either.

Rounding the coffee table, and picking his way over Steve’s legs, Tony sat down with a foot of personal space neatly designated between him and Steve.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “Pep makes a great hangover cure. It doesn’t really cure it, you know. Nothing but sleeping it off does that. But the taste of that stuff _does_ give you something else to think about.”

“Will you stop talking about hangovers?” Steve’s fingers tensed around the glass. “I’m drinking.”

“Right, right. Bad form,” Tony apologized. 

He eyed the whiskey bottle, not yet a third empty. Even so, he prayed to God it hadn’t been a new bottle. It couldn’t possibly be all Steve’s work, or he’d be more than merely _irritable_ by now. His skinny butt would’ve been under the table. Actually, at the rate Steve was wilting on the couch, it kind of looked like the space on the floor beneath the coffee table was, in fact, his butt’s inevitable destination.

Tony involuntarily started, almost reaching out to intervene, when Steve threw back the rest of the glass in a smooth motion. _He_ might not have grimaced at the taste, but Tony certainly grimaced at the sight.

It was just all kinds of not right, sitting there letting Steve pour himself another drink with reckless abandon.

“How is it?” he inquired with careful blandness.

Steve shrugged an angular shoulder—dear God, they were _narrow_ —and sipped speculatively at the liquor, like he hadn’t thought to actually taste it before. 

“Not bad,” he decided. 

“Kind of vanilla-y…woody…floral-y, right?”

Steve shot him a look, and for a minute they were back in the respective roles, where Steve was rational and Tony babbled.

“Sorry. I’m not used to being the sober one in these late-night tête-à-têtes.”                            

Steve seemed to find that at least moderately funny. “Suppose not.” He nodded to the bottle. “Have some.” 

“I’m good, thanks. Guess it’s my turn to play designated driver.” And wouldn’t Pepper and Rhodey have loved to be flies on the wall for that historic moment of self-assumed responsibility.

“Not going anywhere. M’fine, anyway.”

“Sure you are.”

“I _am_.”

Tony held both hands up to demonstrate his docile and highly biddable nature, because apparently alcohol turned Steve into a cranky, paranoid toddler. If she’d been there, Pepper would’ve undoubtedly said it was the universe dishing Tony a healthy serving of poetic justice—and Tony would’ve maintained in response that _he_ was a generous, friendly, and entirely agreeable drunk, thank you very much. Conspiracy theories, tantrums, and bouts of random weeping came _later_. Steve didn’t have the order of things down, at all.

But he had to give the poor guy some leeway. It wasn’t like he’d had much practice in the art of getting convivially smashed, after all.

Then a horrible thought dawned upon him.

“Hey, Steve. Have you _ever_ been drunk before? _Really_ , howling-at-the-moon, singing-like-a-lark _drunk_?”

“‘Course I have.”

This time Tony faced down the belligerent stare with a critical expression of his own.

Steve ducked his head, but not before Tony caught sight of a faint flush.

“Sort of, a few times, I guess. Before the war—before the serum.” Steve’s confession was muffled by his (askew) shirt collar. “Wasn’t like I had the money to do it on a regular basis, though.”

Money, or the carefree irresponsibly, Tony surmised. He further surmised that a few of those “sort of “ occasions of drunkenness had probably involved papers stamped with glaring, red 4Fs.

“Drank with Bucky ‘n the guys, on leave,” Steve continued to mumble in the direction of his lap, with more than a touch of defensiveness. “ _They_ got drunk.”

“Ah, well. Brownie points for observational familiarity. I’m sure you’ve got the general idea down.”

Steve sipped more judiciously at his whiskey, and Tony was just mentally tallying it to the lonely list of “Positive Signs Steve’s Still in There Somewhere,” when Steve decided to sucker-punch him with a non-sequitur.

“I hate being weak.”

“You aren’t.” Tony didn’t have to think about it. Not for a second.

“I _am_.”

No way. They weren’t doing the ornery toddler from _hell_ routine again. He really wanted to renege on the responsibility thing and nab a drink straight out of the bottle. Maybe _that_ would slap Steve back to his senses.

Steve took a larger swallow, effectively suppressing that idea. Steve was steadily working his way past tipsy, with no super soldier metabolism to keep him from going the whole nine yards. He was the child, here, which meant Tony got to be the adult. Yay.

“Hey. Slow it down a bit, huh?” Very adult, Tony thought. Very mature, and persuasive, and cogent. Considering this was his first time giving this kind of advice instead of receiving it, he gave himself an eleven out of ten on his imaginary scoring system. Now if only Steve would stop excelling at his goal of being a brat, too, they’d be set. 

“Why?” Steve challenged.

Tony grunted in frustration. Apparently Steve wasn’t going to be giving him a break. “ _Because_ … I don’t want you crying all over me.”

“I’m not going to cry,” Steve scoffed, convincingly. “M’not _that_ weak.”

“Geez, Steve. Stop with… _that_. Just stop. ‘Weak’ is the last word I’d use to describe you. Like, literally, right down there on the bottom of the list. Way, way down that list, as far away from more accurate words like ‘pig-headed,’ or ‘exasperating,’ as possible.” 

Steve’s eyes were distant—dopey, contemplative, and not latching on to a word of sense, or antagonism, either. He shook his head, sluggishly, like a man who had fathomless numbers of things to regret. “You were right. Before.” 

“As much as it fills my heart with glee _unimaginable_ to hear you admit that…”

Steve’s eyes were transfixed on the glass in his hand, and when he spoke his voice was dull, morose. Stoic. “Everything special about me came out of a bottle.” 

Well, _that_ didn’t hurt like having his gleeful heart torn out mid-beat and stomped on. Not a bit. His heart didn’t _do_ breaking into itty-bitty pieces.

“Now, come on. That’s not fair,” Tony complained, acquiring an unavoidable whine, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he was talking about Steve’s out-of-context application of his words, or the sad-eyed look of acceptance Steve was leveling on him. No grown man had a right to look that forlorn. “It was the glow-stick of destiny messing with our heads,” he persisted. “We were all hitting below the belt without really thinking it through.”

Steve blinked slowly. “No.”

“No? Just, _no_?”

“You meant it.” 

No fair. _Again_. Him, armed like that with the despondent eyes, and the dejected tone—and altogether far, far too much insightfulness for someone who was half seas over. 

Tony ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe I did mean it, at the time. Maybe we all meant what we said then, before we knew anything.” Before they’d known each other.

To his surprise, Steve broke the solemnity of the conversation with a chuckle. “Yeah, well…there’s always another bottle around, right?” He chuckled some more. “Another bottle.” His hand shot out to take a hold of the whiskey again.

This time Tony did stop him—not grabbing him, just placing a hand on his arm. “You don’t need that, Cap.”

Steve looked at Tony’s hand, temporarily, comically perplexed. Then he shook his head. “You don’t understand. You’re…you’re you. And I’m _me_.”

“Thanks for sorting that out, Steve. I’ve always wondered.” Tony pulled his hand back, with a departing pat for Steve’s shoulder.

But Steve was adamant, not to mention even more impervious to sarcasm than usual. His hand made a sloppy loop, in an apparent attempt to indicate Tony. “You…you’re still you, without the suit. You’re still... _there_. Iron Man. You. _I_ was wrong about that.” His words were almost as earnest as his sentence structure was disjointed—coherency slipping through the sieve while the wheels and cogs of his pickled brain kept winding (or trying to).

It was endearing and maddening. Endearing, because Steve stammering and prattling nonsensically _just_ _was_ ; maddening, because didn’t the guy ever _not_ think things to death? 

“Yeah?” Tony returned. “Well, you don’t get the monopoly on that, you know.” Tony found himself confronted by philosophical, befuddled, _inebriated_ blue eyes, and sighed. “I said things without thinking, too, buddy. And I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“Really?”

And now the philosophical, sad-eyed wreck was looking at him like he possessed the key to unlock all the knowledge in the universe. It was such a moment of naked _trust_ , Tony felt something resembling guilt begin to build in his chest. Because who on earth got themselves thoroughly, off their head plastered, and then turned to Tony Stark for help sorting things out? 

Steve Rogers, apparently. The guy made trust look _easy_ , like it was the most natural thing on earth to believe the best of people rather than the worst. He’d probably been incorrigible about talking to strangers as a kid, too—it would’ve made sense, considering he’d grown up to volunteer to be the government’s human guinea pig. 

“ _Really_ , Steve,” Tony confirmed, after a pause. He might not be Doctor Phil, but he had to get this right. Somehow. The blind leading the blind. “Erskine was obviously a brilliant guy.”

“He made me,” Steve breathed, wistfully, words soft and faintly muddled.

“He saw who you already _were_.” Tony surprised himself with the sharp vehemence of his own voice. “The very fact that you’re such a scrawny runt is all the proof in the world that Erskine chose you because Steve Rogers was already, fundamentally, Captain America. The serum…it was just a hand up. Admittedly, a big hand up. But it was a weapon Erskine wanted to arm you with. You, Steve, not some jarhead clone straight out of the mold. He knew it had to be you, and he was right.” He tried and failed to catch Steve’s drifting gaze. “Can’t you get that, Cap? The rest of us sure have.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment before he responded. “Scrawny runt?” 

Tony rolled his eyes. He _would_ choose those _two words_ out of the entire thesis. “Well, you are. Unarmed, neither of is exactly _Thor_. Doesn’t make us chopped liver.”

“But you can always build another suit. And you’re a genius.” Steve stared pointedly, enviously at him with red-rimmed eyes, glassy, and uncomfortably honest.

Flattery had never felt so little deserved. Possibly because it was someone _else_ doing the flattering, for once. 

“So maybe I’ll make you some armor,” Tony plowed forward. “Your very own suit, huh? Red, white, and blue. Iron Patriot’s kinda taken, since someone couldn’t leave well enough alone with War Machine, but it’s not like the market’s cornered. Or we could just do blue and white. Then we can be complimentary.” 

He didn’t mention the ridiculously adorable mental image that sprang to life at the concept of an Iron Man suit with a size zero waist. On a less smile-inducing note… he was more than a little afraid that Steve’s body wouldn’t have the stamina to stand up to that kind of fighting, even with a suit to absorb most of the strain. But, terrifying as the thought was, if it proved the only alternative to sitting and watching him drink himself into despair….

“Make me ‘nother brain, too?”

Admittedly, Dazed and Infused like that, Steve looked like he could use one. Tony kept his expression stern, though, because pot shots were out of place here. Also, Steve probably wouldn’t get it.

“Nothing wrong with the one you’ve got, Scarecrow.” 

“I guess.”

For a minute, Tony couldn’t fathom what he’d said to make Steve look even more glum about life. Then Steve groaned pathetically, “Think…gonna be sick,” and Tony made an Olympian sprint for the empty ice bucket behind the bar, arriving back and getting it into position just in the nick of time. 

There was simply no sound nastier than that of retching. But Pepper would’ve been proud of the way he sat down, and put a hand on Steve’s back, and only grimaced a little in disgust, and a lot in sympathy.

Just when he was sure Steve was on the verge of being snapped in half by dry heaves—manfully-repressed whimpers escaping in-between the worst of them—they began to lessen.

When they did, Tony removed the bucket and held out the towel he’d snatched up during his sprint. Steve accepted with a shaking hand, wiping at his chin, and then discovering his mouth, as if by feel rather then through spatial awareness or the ability to coordinate.

“You good for a minute? I’ll get you some water.”

Steve was staring woozily in the direction of the floor, where the glass had fallen and shattered while he’d been busy puking his guts out. “I broke it,” he stated, and going by the devastated look on his face he could’ve easily meant the world, or at least a couple of continents.

“I’m in the denial stages of grief. We’ll revisit the possibility of forgiveness later.” When Steve continued to look crestfallen, Tony swore softly to himself, and revised: “It’s _okay_ , Steve. Chip there has siblings in the cupboard. Lots of other brave little glasses ready and willing to do their duty.”

Steve’s head dipped once in acceptance, probably comprehending Tony’s patient tone more than any particular meaning.

Tony double-timed it back with the water, because he was pretty sure Steve was fading fast now, and there was no way he wanted to be the one confessing to Fury that he’d let Captain America brain himself on a coffee table.

Fading Steve might be, but apparently not fast. More like sluggishly, with much fluttering of eyelids that never quite stayed closed. He accepted a few sips from the glass of water, which Tony kept a parental hold of. When he set the glass down on the table he discretely used the motion to nudge the bottle of whiskey further out of Steve’s reach.

“Tony?”

Tony took in the glistening eyes, and the heartfelt expression, and… Oh, dear God. Here came the waterworks. He was earning a sainthood in under an hour. 

“Hmm?” he murmured, calmly, like a man untroubled by thoughts of fleeing the scene.

“Why’re you being s’nice to me?”

“I forgive all my friends the first time they break one of my glasses. It’s the second time where I start to suspect malicious intentions. The third time, we cut all ties.” Tony sliced a hand through air decisively. He checked Steve’s unyielding stare for signs of cracking, found none, and deflated for what felt like the hundredth time in the last half hour. “You’re the toughest crowd of _one_ to ever to kill a comedy routine dead in its tracks, you know that? Most people don’t need to marinade themselves before they’ll laugh at a lot less.”

“Sorry. M’not very good at that.” 

“Laughing? Ah, but that’s the beauty of being a wanton reprobate. There’s really no _wrong_ way to go about it. You’ll get the hang of it and make it your own.”

“I don’t think I want to be a reprobate,” Steve moaned. He seemed mostly recovered from his bout of vomiting, and was once more trying to mold himself into the couch, with impressive success.

From the bastion heights of superior deportment, Tony looked down at Steve’s face, etched with misery and the beginnings of repentance. “Yeah, well. I guess I’m with you on that one. You were trying so hard I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but you make kind of a lousy reprobate. I think it’s the whole _wanton_ part that’s missing.”

“Oh.”

“We’ve all got our strengths. Yours is keeping guys like Powell too scared to do more than peek out of their cubicles.”

“I think…Thor was the one who scared him,” Steve mused drowsily.

“Did he order _Thor_ restrained?”

“Couldn’t’ve stopped Thor.”

“Well, there is that.” Tony held up a finger. “But I’m _trying_ to make a _point_ , here, Steve.”

Finally, there was a blip on the radar. The smile was small enough to be insignificant on anyone one else, but on a depressed Steve it was as brilliant as one of Thor’s grins.

“ _What_?” Tony exclaimed in bemusement. “That wasn’t even supposed to be funny.” 

“Think you could use a drink. Y’look…tense,” Steve observed sagely, still smiling.

“I am tense,” Tony agreed. Though he wasn’t quite as tense, now that Steve was finally discovering the happier stages of inebriation. The guy had earned it. Tony had never seen anyone make drinking look so much like work.

“What was the point?” Steve’s words were soft. Mush, really. Like the rest of him, which had somehow begun to slide towards Tony this time, flagrantly ignoring the foot of no man’s land Tony had established between them. 

“Point?” Tony was nonplussed for a moment. “Oh—that point.” He observed Steve, who observed him back with an expectant look on his face like Tony was made of rainbows, and kittens, and all kinds of other mind-bogglingly wonderful things. Equally possible, Steve might just be tracking the shimmering progress of the dust mote drifting past Tony’s shoulder. In either case, it was distracting to see Steve so glassy-eyed.

Tony soldiered on. “The point is…you’re probably not going to remember much of this in the morning, anyway. But maybe some of it’ll sink in. You know, the subconscious retaining information, and all that. So listen up, kid. Because, whatever garbage you’re telling yourself—if this is where it’s taking you?—it’s gotta stop. Super soldier, or average soldier, or pint-sized soldier, you’re still the one Erskine picked, and you’re still a vital part of what makes this team thing work. No one’s humoring you by asking you stay. You’ve got to have noticed by now that none of us are the types to be bothered with pep talks and nice sentiments. Except Fury, the big softie. He’s obviously just partial.” His lips quirked. “And, frankly, Cap? If you try any harder at achieving ‘special,’ I’m afraid you might spontaneously combust from too much of that internalized goodness-and-light. That much sincerity can’t be healthy. I mean, c’mon. A guy can only be so sickeningly altruistic before it becomes nauseating, or radioactive, or something.”

Steve’s eyelids were drooping, so at least he’d found the tirade soothing.

Tony was about to say something tolerantly scathing about how glad he was that they’d had their little heart-to-heart, when Steve murmured, with pathos: “I can’t protect…anyone.”

“You could cut yourself some slack. You are in your nineties.”

“Twen’ies,actually,” Steve said, like he was confessing it—like it was really news to Tony that Steve Rogers was just a kid who’d wanted to protect his country, and had gotten his wish. And then some.

At that moment, with Steve caving to sleep like the overtired boy scout he was, Tony wouldn’t have fought the notion he was in his teens.

“Nineties. Twenties. Either way, some people might say you earned a break after _one_ war. Never mind Loki and the Chitauri. Or that giant, sort-of-sentient, rabid beaver thing last April.” 

Even with only thin slits of blue showing, it was easy to read the almost-accusation in Steve’s bleary eyes. “M’not you, Tony. I’m a soldier. Fighting is what I do. I don’t _have_ anything else.”

“You’ve got us. Natasha, Clint, Thor, Bruce, _me_ : the original motley-yet-endearing crew. And you can wallow all you need, Cap. Less rather than more would be nice, you know, but…” He shrugged. “Wallowing doesn’t scare any of us. Wallowing is like our team sport. Just—go easy on the whiskey next time?”

“I hate w’iskey,” Steve groaned, with feeling, his head sliding dangerously close to the proximity of Tony’s shoulder.

“If you think that now, buddy, wait until morning.”

“I hate _you_.”

Tony chuckled. Chuckled, despite the fact his shoulder was now, officially, a pillow. He chuckled, because martyrdom had its rewards—like hearing Captain America let down his guard enough to say _mean things_ even without massive provocation. If they could’ve heard Steve then, mothers all over the world would’ve been gasping and covering their children’s ears.

“I hate you, too, Steve.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've done nothing but break my promises to put chapters out more quickly, I'm not going to promise anything this time. BUT, I shouldn't be leaving on a trip any time soon, AND I'm finally feeling recovered from a case of food poisoning. 
> 
> So I hope that means I'll be more on task with my to-do list. ;D

Steve took his punishment like a man. A miserable, pale, pinch-faced man, who walked at a shuffle and kept himself slightly bent at the waist, like he’d been fused that way overnight and might break if he attempted to straighten himself.

As was becoming habitual, Thor expressed worry by plying Steve with food, the majority of which Steve politely blanched over, before finally accepting toast and nibbling at it in an attempt to appease him.

Natasha kept an eye on him throughout the day, watchful, and gauging, and subtly upset.

Bruce was convinced Steve was on the brink of a relapse of pneumonia, and refused to place too much faith in Steve’s assurances to the contrary. Instead, he followed in Thor’s wake, plying Steve with Tylenol and brooding looks of concern.

Clint expressed the team’s silent suspicions—namely, that Tony had _something_ to do with Steve’s overnight U-turn away from health—all with an economy of speech (a wizard with the evocative word pictures, that was Clint), and a dark look.

Tony had considered taking offence, he really had. But considering that on any other day they probably would’ve been at least partly on the money, a vaguely self-righteous air of private vindication seemed more temperate. Besides, he’d fallen asleep on the same couch as Steve, and was doing a fare amount of shuffling, himself, while his spine recovered from being cast into the shape of a boomerang. Also, he had a headache—without having touched a drop of alcoholic recompense—a fact that made him a whole lot madder than anything Clint could say.

 _Also_ , there was no way he was ratting Steve out. Come hell or high water, what happened in the Sulking Lounge _stayed_ in the Sulking Lounge. It was a hypothetical pact Tony signed in hypothetical blood without hypothetical demur.

Too bad he’d forgotten to make _Steve_ sign that pact of silence. It took him the better part of the day to catch on to the undercurrents of animosity, and even then Steve didn’t quite get it at first—until he suddenly _got_ it, as he followed Clint’s pensive glare to its target: Tony’s forehead (aaand, _bull’s-eye)_.

Good ol’ Steve. All had been quiet in the rec the room, with everyone settled and more or less content. But Steve’s untarnished conscience had clearly cried out at the injustice of his silent discovery. He’d instantly blurted out for the benefit of the Avengers, arranged on furniture in various attitudes of relaxation: “I’ve been hung-over, guys, because I got _myself_ drunk last night. I could’ve been a lot worse off today it Tony hadn’t found me and talked me down from crawling even further into the bottle.”

Tony decided at the point that he preferred being the object of their blame. Being the focus of their astonishment—the non-horrified kind—was unnerving. That kind of astonishment was full of expectation, and at that precise moment he didn’t feel like living up to anything more energetic than expectations of continued flagrant idleness.

“ _Shh_. Some of us are trying to _watch_ this.” He gestured to the flat-panel screen, grasping at straws, _needing_ to divert attention. Up to that point, he’d been ignoring whatever it was Clint had turned on, in favor of dozing. Unfortunately, all he had to work with was a commercial break. Even more unfortunately, at the exact moment he pointed to the screen with overstated enthusiasm, the commercial switched to a pharmaceutical ad for an anti-depressant.

There was a long silence, per Tony’s request, wherein the narrator cheerfully rattled off a list of potential side-effects surely guaranteed to drive all thoughts of depression from your mind and replace them with thoughts of suicide. Or—going by the manic happiness on the face of the actress digging in the dirt with a trowel and planting marigolds—it made you _so_ blissful that no amount of vomiting, diarrhea, or breaking out in hives could shake your buoyancy. Oh, yeah, and in most cases memory loss could be avoided. Suh _-weet_.

As the commercial changed to a Jenny Craig ad, Clint said dryly, “Let me guess, this one’s another of your favorites?”

“No, no,” Tony countered pleasantly. “I’m good—more of a South Beach kinda guy, really.”

Natasha eyed him curiously from where she was ensconced on the couch beside Thor. Tony had to take some pride in the fact that she still looked confused—and not, he was reasonably sure, because of his classy tastes in commercials and dieting plans. 

Tony weathered a few more minutes of the team’s subtle and unsubtle scrutiny, but—thank God—he wasn’t forced to endure any bumbling attempts at apology.

The atmosphere in the wake of Steve’s airing of disputes after a day-long cold war was nice, though. Bruce was fielding Thor’s questions about the “Southern Beach.” Clint was not-smiling in a pleasantly not-glaring kind of way (with him, it was all about learning the degrees of unreadable possible-annoyance, until he did something like produce an unexpectedly boyish grin, throwing you off completely). Natasha had stopped telepathically prying secrets from his brain.

Steve didn’t give up as easily as the rest. He kept watching Tony: tiredly, quizzically, like he was a million-piece puzzle that he had no frame of reference to even _begin_ assembling a satisfactory picture by. Tony flashed him a dazzling “Good luck with that” smile, and fell asleep within five minutes.

 

* * *

 

When Steve started asserting his right to independence, it felt like a foretaste of poetic justice for every act of teenage rebellion Tony had ever made his parents suffer through. 

But Steve was right. They all knew he was well within his rights, and that this was something that had to happen. “I’m as healthy as I’m going to get,” he’d pointed out, rationally, patiently. “And I lived on my own for years before I was Captain America.”

To which Tony had retorted, a little hesitantly, “But…you had…friends, right? Friends who dragged your scrawny butt out of the fire. Everyone’s got those.”

“Bucky,” Steve had agreed softly, pausing, clearly remembering. “Yeah,” his eyes had roved around them, with fondness, “he’d appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. All of you.” His expression became more stern. “But, for all his protectiveness, he realized I still had my own life to live. Just like I need to get on with living my life, now.” 

“If this is about feeling like you’re living off charity…” Tony’d begun.

But in the end it hadn’t mattered what he said. Steve was stubborn. Proud. Of course he felt like he was living off charity, no matter how firmly he insisted that wasn’t the point. And the first part of not feeling overly reliant on others was redefining a sense of free will.

SHIELD didn’t really believe in free will, apparently. Fury hadn’t taken it too well when Tony had compared SHIELD’s control-freakishness with Loki’s philosophy of life regarding freedom. Fury hadn’t backed down from his stance that “Rogers needs eyes on him, at all times,” but he’d actually come close to looking annoyed _and_ affronted, instead of just plain annoyed. Which Tony considered an improvement. Because even though he was kind of sort of sitting on Fury’s side of the fence, he had a right to his control-freakishness because he had Steve’s health and wellbeing in mind, instead of just the preservation of a currently vulnerable national treasure. 

Tony couldn’t say for a fact that he and Fury had seen eyes to eye (contrived jokes never got old), because after their “conversation” he’d simply declared himself the victor, and stomped off before Fury could say otherwise. It was a childish way of pseudo-winning that had served him well before.

Really, he would’ve preferred going the “ask forgiveness, not permission” route, with the asking-forgiveness-later part left as optional. But Steve in his artless lack of savvy had apparently felt _wrong_ not informing SHIELD of his intentions to begin resuming the normal civilian side of his life. It wasn’t as if it was a threat to security, risking the media or worse getting wind of what had happened by his going out and about—after all, who was even likely to recognize him in his current state?

Hence Tony watching Steve’s butt by going to bat for him before SHIELD could attempt to leverage his conscientiousness against him. Because tantrum throwing was something Tony was ace at, if he did say so himself.

The look of gratitude on Steve’s face was priceless, and also so guileless it made Tony rethink all over again the idea of sending him out on his own.

Of course, what Tony didn’t tell Steve was that he wasn’t entirely at odds with SHIELD’s point of view, and neither was the rest of the team. They just wanted to be the ones playing Big Brother (and Sister) on _their_ terms. Clint and Natasha were the obvious choices for ninja-stalkers, and took turns casually tailing Steve. They ousted their own SHIELD-issue stalkers within minutes of stepping outside the doors of Stark Tower. 

Unfortunately, Steve was nearly as good at spotting his own stalkers. Probably because he had the smarts to assume they’d try something like that.

After he’d sent a sulky Clint back home, they’d had a team huddle and decided they had only one option left: Thor.

Thor, who didn’t even make a pretense at stealth. Whenever Steve looked back at him, he’d grin his best charming grin, and Steve would sigh, and move on, clearly not possessing the heart to order off his loyal Asgardian guard dog.

Until, one day, Steve did. Kindly, yes, but firmly nonetheless. Thor came home looking downcast, but affirmed his own decision staunchly: “He deserves the respect of being allowed to make his own choices.”

That wasn’t to say Thor would actually cease and desist altogether. But he and Steve reached a happy medium, where Thor gave him space, and Steve occasionally welcomed Thor as actual company on his about-town excursions, instead of forcing him to be an attentive shadow walking half a block behind.

They all got their turns, once they got the idea that they could stop following him and just _ask_ if they could come along once in a while, and guard duty morphed organically into something that finally felt natural to them all and gave him space when he needed it, while satisfying their need to keep an eye on Steve. 

So it was really all hunky dory on the home front, even if the occasional mission felt like a scab ripped open every time they had to tell Steve. Steve, who’d cram his hands in his pockets, and smile like it didn’t hurt to not be officially included in the call to assemble, and sometimes (more and more often) he’d join them, staying at whatever SHIELD base was nearest to do what he could to captain from the sidelines. Even if he didn’t have much physical weight to throw around, he wasn’t a pushover—he’d established something, after the show-down with Powell—and Tony would be the first to admit it was good for the soul to see Steve don the role he was born to (“Captain Bossy-Pants” was the actual phrase Tony’d used to Steve’s face, but in his head, it was just “Captain,” plain and simple, every time Steve took charge of assessing a situation with a sure hand).

Tony hoped it gave him a sense of purpose, but he saw the look that settled in Steve’s eyes when he thought no one was watching. That look repeatedly sent him and Bruce back to the lab to pour over information. Everything they had on Radner. Everything they had on the serum. They tossed possibilities around until the possibilities were as dinged and dented as possibilities could get.                                                             

Steve was kept on the SHIELD payroll as a consultant. There hadn’t been any arm-twisting, as far Tony knew. Not to get SHIELD to do the paying, at least. Steve, on the other hand, had been hesitant at first, clearly torn between a growing sense of that purpose he was so keen on finding, and a need not to accept more handouts.

But in the end it was hard to accuse Fury of anything remotely resembling _charity_.

In his spare time, Steve started sketching with a passion. Half of his walks seemed to be for the sole purpose of sitting at cafés people-watching. On one of the occasions when Tony accompanied him, just as he was getting bored out of his head with sitting there, the woman Steve had been sketching caught on to the fact. She was one of those no-nonsense New Yorkers (as if they made any other kind), and when she marched up to their table, towing her young daughter by the hand, frankly, Tony began to expect bloodshed. And what a way for Captain America and Iron Man to go.

Maybe the woman had expected to shed some blood, herself. But when Steve had sheepishly, apologetically allowed her to see the sketch in question, she’d softened—an effect accomplished by a combination of Steve being Steve, and Steve having done a rather magical little candid character-study sketch of her and her daughter sitting at the table laughing together over croissants and tea. When he offered to give it to her, she wound up insisting he take twenty dollars in exchange, and would’ve given him more if he’d let her.

Tony watched her retreating back, and couldn’t help remarking, “In that picture, Steve, she looked…” Radiant, was the word that he couldn’t bring himself to say. She’d looked radiant in a way that had eclipsed her stocky build and unremarkable features. She’d _glowed_ in the picture—but it hadn’t been a lie, either. Steve hadn’t changed her figure, or edited her features. All the same, somehow the picture had captured the best of her. 

Steve was already bent over his sketching pad again, and Tony could only barely make out the smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “I draw people like I see them, Tony.” Blue eyes glanced up at him for a second, thoughtfully.

“Hey, no capturing _this_ inner beauty without permission,” Tony has said, with an unexpected surge of true self-consciousness. “It might blind you.”

“How do you know I haven’t tried already?”

“Tried? Tried, as in ‘tried and failed?’” Tony tried to wrap his head around whether failure to capture his essence on paper would’ve been a compliment to him, or an insult. 

“Tried as in…results were inconclusive,” Steve said, evasively. “You’re confusing.”

“Complex,” Tony haggled.

“Confounding.”

“We could try a different letter of the alphabet. How about ‘D’ for ‘dazzling?’”

“Try ‘I’ for ‘incorrigible.’”

“Did I say we could skip all the way to the ‘I’ words? Did I?” Tony didn’t really expect a laugh for his blatant puns, not when it came to Steve. He tried to peer over Steve’s shoulder. “Let me see this _confounding_ likeness of Tony Stark.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“ _Please_?”

“If you say ‘with a cherry on top,’ so help me God…”

“With sprinkles on top, and hot fudge. No cherries. Pinky-promise.”

Steve set his pencil on the table, and Tony snatched up the sketchpad before Steve could carefully, privately, pick and choose what he allowed Tony to see.

Steve resigned himself with a sigh to watching Tony flip through the pages, sipping at his lemonade without too much apparent concern. That was something Tony had noticed about Steve, too. For all he could be intensely private about what he did with his spare time, he wasn’t particularly possessive about his sketches. He seemed to _need_ to draw—to experience the actual process—but the end results were something he treated with surprising objectivity. While he might hesitate to share them with people, once shared he didn’t excessively disparage or act embarrassed about them, either.

Steve had been working his way through this particular sketchbook at a slow pace, and the first dozen pages were from months back—pre-Radner. Several sketches of the team included Steve himself, before he’d been returned to his pre-serum state.

Tony saw himself, and Clint, and Natasaha, and Thor, and Bruce (and the Other Guy), all shown in different moods and settings. Geared up, or relaxing on the couch. Lounging around kitchen tables, and rummaging through the fridge, and throwing pillows at each other’s heads.

Steve Rogers _was_ there, more than he’d realized at first, Tony noted. Usually he was smiling a little, watching his teammates. He was leaning against a table, or sitting to one side of the couch, or just _there_ , lost in the background, given about as much sparkle and animation as the potted plant sitting back there in the corner, out of the way and unremarkable.

The Steve Rogers in every group sketch looked about as vital to the scene as a stage prop lamppost or a cardboard cutout. 

There were candid, rough sketches of Coulson, and Hill, and even Fury, and one of Loki. And then more of the team. More of those five fascinating people, plus the silent guy who kept smiling and watching, and being about as interesting as beige wallpaper. The phrase he’d heard quoted of Captain America a million times during his childhood _—“I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”_ —had always seemed like a sort of humble boast. But, as Tony progressed to the more recent sketches, and watched Steve morph into a scrawnier version of himself who predictably continued to inhabit an unremarkable corner of the page, Tony couldn’t stop seeing that kid from Brooklyn as Steve saw him. This was the one who’d gotten beaten up a lot, and turned down by the army, and never imagined achieving a life as a hero of any kind, let alone a superhero.

Every Steve staring up at Tony out of the sketchbook was like some washed out, diluted, commonplace version of Steve—the opposite of a caricature. He made himself look like the kind of guy who didn’t possess any particular spark of something special to set him apart from a thousand other people.

From anyone else, Tony would’ve suspected self-pity—some deliberate self-put-down that hoped for a pat on the back.

“Are they really that bad?” 

“Hmm?” Tony grunted, still lost in thought. 

“You look… _upset_. Are they really that bad?” Steve repeated. He sounded more curious than defensive.

Tony looked up. “Bad?”

“I thought a couple of them turned out pretty good.”

“Sure, sure they did. I look awesome. Natasha’s gorgeous. Thor’s just epic. Clint’s manic. Bruce looks almost as brilliant as me. Basically, we’re all spot on.”

“But?”

“It does kind of show when you’re not feeling particularly _charitable_ about a certain someone.” 

Steve frowned. “I don’t take out my frustrations on people like that.”

“Really? Because I thought you said just a few minutes ago that you draw people like you see them,” Tony turned the page around, pointing to the shadow-Steve in the picture, “and that _can’t_ be what you see. Not if you’re even remotely attached to the guy like the rest of us are.” 

“Tony, self-portraits are…”

“Complicated?”

“Yeah.  They are.”

“You might try looking in a mirror, then, because I’m not seeing much complexity, here.”

Steve held out his hand for his sketchpad. “I let you look, and this is how you repay me?” he asked dryly.

“With the truth? Yup. You see, there’s this guy whose been hanging around for a while—compulsively, chronically honest, always saying it like it is, and standing up for What’s Right—and I think he’s been affecting me. Half the time now I just go about lost and distraught, unable to conscience a single bald-faced lie. It’s terrible.”

“Can I have my sketchbook back now?” Steve said quietly, still holding out his hand, not meeting Tony’s eyes.

Tony closed the sketchpad, hugged it to his chest.

“ _Tony_.”

“Indulge me.”

“Why? Because I corrupted you with my honesty?”

“Hey, that _is_ a good reason.”

Steve sighed heavily. “What do you want, Tony?”

Tony relinquished the sketchbook, stretching his arms and then clasping them behind his head. “Draw that guy just once, with feeling—and not just sitting on the sidelines.” He shrugged casually, feeling a little bit hounded by the intense frown of scrutiny Steve was giving him. “He’s not a stick man, or a coat rack.” He looked down and sidelong at the pavement, at a piece of green ABC gum with the tread print from a shoe texturizing it. “And the last I checked, he was kind of a funny guy when he wanted to be. Hysterical, actually.”

“Hysterical,” Steve echoed.

“Sure. Yeah. Full of surprises.”

“Surprises?”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.” Tony pointed at him, very rudely. “That’s what I’m talking about. He’s devious. _Sneaky_.”

“Sarcastic, even.”

“Yes.”

Steve lounged back in his chair, crossing his arms across his safely repossessed sketchpad, resting on his chest. “I just draw it like I see it, Tony. Myself, other people. All of it. It’s just one perspective.”

Tony could have easily deflected with some comment about Steve breaking his perfect streak of third-person commentary. He didn’t. He had something much more cunning in mind.

“ _I’ll_ give you perspective. I could draw stick-figure Steves, you know. Really stunning, nuanced, _happy_ stick-figure Steves. And put them everywhere—on the refrigerator, and the dashboards of the quinjets, and the bulletin boards at SHIELD, and send pictures to Pepper, and Fury, and Coulson. And then they’ll probably put those pictures on _their_ refrigerators.”

Steve’s lack of a volatile reaction was disheartening. “Was that a threat?” he asked, after a thoughtful pause.

“ _Yes_ , that was a _threat_.”

Steve was smiling. The jerk. He stood unhurriedly, tore out a blank piece of paper from his sketchpad, and handed it to Tony before sauntering off.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you'll all pardon the medical hand-wavy-ness in this chapter and (increasingly) in some of the chapters coming up. I spent a long time on research, but I'm still no expert. ;)

Pepper thought the sketches were “adorable.”

Fury didn’t. He didn’t think Tony was, either.

Coulson didn’t say anything, but someone (not Fury) had cleared the way for Tony’s not-quite-stick-figure sketch of a happy Steve to be posted on a very official bulletin board at of SHIELD’s facilities. Tony even left an email address for fan mail and critiques.

Tony watched smugly as Steve stared in bewilderment at yet another happy Steve sketch on the refrigerator in the kitchen at Stark Tower.

“I’m thinking: Picasso meets Rockwell meets Klee,” Tony commented self-critically.

“Meets Dalí,” Steve added, no doubt eying the rather warped neck of the stick figure “him” in the picture, along with the pair of super amazing spaghetti legs sprouting from a blocky torso.

“I’m flattered. Really.”

Steve shook his head. “I can’t believe you did this.”

“Aw, shucks, Cap. I’ve blown you away, haven’t I?”

“Uh. Yeah, definitely. You’re even crazier than I thought.”

“But do you see that perfect shield, and that perfect _smile_? Plus, I think I really nailed the perfectly coifed hair part.”

“Why am I using my shield as a basket to hold a bouquet of daisies?” In defense of Steve’s lukewarm (and no doubt ultimately, deep down _stunned_ ) reception, he did sound genuinely desirous to understand.

“Eh, yeah. The concept could’ve been improved upon. I like the one where you’re rescuing puppies better. Made the mistake of giving that one to the one-eyed Grinch in the hopes it would melt his nasty-wasty heart. But, never fear, I’ll draw another one, just for you.”

Steve never did directly take him up on that offer. But Steve was shy like that, so Tony considered himself commissioned and made a new edition of the puppy-rescuing Steve, and then left it on Steve’s desk, waiting there to brighten his day. Natasha suggested he follow it up with a kitten-rescuing Steve. Thor smiled, and said they reminded him of his own early attempts, “which my mother Frigga cherishes to this day, though Loki’s art was ever more refined.” Bruce chuckled, and said he liked the one where Steve was giving children piggyback rides. Clint had suggested, much to Steve’s subtly not-well-contained chagrin, that the newspapers might be interested in a couple of Stark originals.

It figured, after so much positive forward progress, that they were due a setback. Really, Tony should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve just told Pepper to book out a timeslot for Imminent Setback, and aimed for coordination and punctuality rather then avoidance.

He supposed it could’ve been worse, though. When the call came, he could’ve been doing something really important, like brushing his teeth, or in the middle of that delicate process of mixing the perfect martini. Instead, he was on his way to a run-of-the-mill “Be There This time, Tony, I Mean It” board meeting.

His first thought when he saw “The Man with a Plan” pop up on caller I.D. was, “ _Saved_.” Because Steve probably needed someone to explain to him again why people (and also demigods) were “poking” him on Facebook—or to remind him that he helped save _the world_ often enough without assuming the burden of single-handedly making himself the patron saint of every Farmville denizen in dire need of help procuring a cow (even though Steve positively hated the game himself and couldn’t even remember having signed up for it).

So the board would just have to wait. Especially if this was actually about LOLcats, or double rainbows, or something equally vital to the education of Captain America. That was pop culture at its most life-altering. Pepper would understand. No, really, she would. She had a soft spot for Steve, and furthermore knew that a comprehensive understanding of these things couldn’t be left to chance (or Wikipedia, God help them all). 

When Tony _answered_ the phone, and got an earful of strained, irregular breathing, his elation made an about-face.

“Steve?”

“Tony?”

A blind exchange of names (by two people who were, in fact, fairly confident of each other’s given names) was all about inflection. Tony aimed for demanding, with a chance of accusation. Steve…well, Steve’s inflection was hard to get a sense for beyond the croaking sound of his voice, but there might’ve been a hint of, “Help. I’ve been run over by a semi-truck.”

That, however, was extrapolating without evidence—never mind that the wheezing he could hear would seem to support his working theory, and moreover sounded Very Not Good, in any case. Now that he’d witnessed Steve having a full-blown asthma attack, Tony absolutely _did not_ have nightmares about Steve going off somewhere without his inhaler and committing suicide via a ten-minute jog. _That_ was the stuff of late-night pacing, and had nothing whatsoever to do with falling asleep in the first place.

“Ste- _eve_.” Now Tony could hear himself sounding like an overbearing parent on the verge of freaking out, an doing a poor job of masking said freak-out by saying things very levelly. The really awesome part was, that had kind of been the effect he’d been going for. 

“I think…I sort of…got mugged.”

“You _think_ —you _sort of_?” Tony spluttered. He was already making strides for the elevator. “You called the police before you called me, right?”

There was a telling pause.

Tony punctuated jabs to elevator buttons with oaths. Of the sorry delinquent, clearly breathing out his last breaths on the other end of the line, he exacted, “Are you somewhere safe?”

“Alley. The guys’r gone. Guess I passed out.”

“Are you _dying_? Should I be calling the morgue, or the hospital?” Tony growled, because for a guy breathing his last breath Steve sounded fairly calm, and it was irritating to have the source of your anxiety so _peacefully_ expiring while you were busy having a heart attack on his behalf. Speaking of which… “Steve, _tell_ me you have your inhaler.”

“’Course I do.” Despite this blip of indignation, Steve’s voice was small. Small, and pleading. “Just…come get me? It’s not that bad. I’ve…I’ve had worse.”

“As _comforting_ as it is for me to hear a guy—who I’ve seen treat near evisceration as a ‘walk it off’ sort of injury—reassure me that he’s ‘had worse,’ I’m still thinking: ambulance.” 

“No, please. Please, Tony…just, come get me? Bruce can patch me up.”

Tony listened to Steve’s slurred-but-fairly-coherent directions, in his head already plotting a course through NYC mid-afternoon traffic, even while he groaned aloud, “ _Seriously_ , Steve. If I find you dead in a pool of blood…”

“You won’t.”

“If I do, I’m not even going to shed a tear. Thor can do the eulogy at your funeral. Clint can weep openly. Bruce and Natasha can hold each other’s hands for comfort, and talk about what a great guy you were. Fury and Coulson can play the world’s most compelling ushers, ever, for all I care. _I_ may not even attend. Though I promise to have JARVIS record the televised coverage for me to watch later, when _convenient_. I might send flowers, too.”

“Deal.” Steve had the impudence to sound vaguely as if he was smiling between gasps.

“There is no _deal_.” Tony slammed the car door behind him. “There is me, going against the better judgment telling me to call some professionals to actually _save your life_ , and instead coming to scrape your scrawny butt up off the pavement—while reserving the right to _kick_ said scrawny butt at a later date.” 

“You’re… coming, though… right?” Steve panted, like he hadn’t heard a word Tony had just said.

“Yeah.” There was nothing like a dose of soulful trust to burst your self-righteous bubble of indignation, as Tony was discovering. “Yeah, I’m coming, buddy. In the meantime just keep breathing, okay? It’s a simple goal, and I ask so little.” He waited, impatient, for a response while he put the key in the ignition. “You got it?”

“Got it.”

Tony paid disrespect to several stop signs without remorse, and without taking the time to wave back at the guy in the convertible giving him a one-fingered salute.

Steve was as good as his word, up to a point, since he wasn’t lying dead in a pool of blood. At least Tony was fairly sure that black stain on the asphalt was just oil, or puke, or something only moderately terrifying.

“That’s a real a bang-up job you’re doing, holding up the wall, there, Steve, but I think it’s time we leave the deli to fend for itself,” Tony commended, just a little giddy to see Steve had managed to sit up, propping himself against the building, presenting at least a facade of life. Still, still life.

Tony crouched down. “ _Steve_.”

Steve jolted, nearly banging his head on the wall. “Tony.”

“I give up. How did you know? Have we met before?”

Steve smiled a little, which looked painful considering his lips were bloodied, along with, well…his _face_. He had a nasty case of road rash along the left side of his face, and there was a gash on his right cheek.

Someone had smashed him in the face, repeatedly, and at that moment Tony wanted nothing more than to smash something, or some _one,_ himself.

“Thanks, Tony.”

Though his relief was evident, he sounded so casual it ticked Tony off all over again. Muggings might not be exactly scarce in New York these days, but Tony was pretty sure “Nice weather, huh?” was still not the correct response to having someone rob you, beat you, and leave you passed out behind a dumpster.

Compulsively, Tony reached out to wipe at a smear of blood on Steve’s chin, and when Steve turned his head away, griped, “Hey. Just be thankful it’s not a spit-bath.”

He looked Steve up and down, but apart from the way Steve was cradling his ribs with both arms, his x-ray vision failed to help him make an accurate assessment of exactly how bad this was. “What’s the damage?” He was impressed by his own insouciance. But, then, nonchalance was his specialty, and if Steve didn’t care that he looked one more uppercut away from being officially pulverized, then who was Tony to care on his behalf?

Steve lifted a shoulder a fraction of an inch, and let it fall, croaking, “Everything just hurts.” 

“Well, awesome. And no ER, huh? Good call.” His blasé was slipping. A pulverized Steve demanded emotion of some kind, even if it were only reproachful sarcasm.

 “I don’t want to go back to SHIELD.” Steve swallowed, averted his eyes. “I really…really don’t want to go back to SHIELD. If I go to the ER, Fury will find out what happened, and then I’ll have to convince everyone all over again…. Please, Tony?”

That was the third please he’d heard, and it was just as effective as the first two.

“Go ahead, break my heart, why don’t you…” Tony muttered. Frankly, he was having second thoughts about Steve and autonomy. Thor was going to have a fit when he found out. A real god-of-thunder-sized fit. 

“Come on. Let’s get you up.” Tony pulled Steve’s arm around his neck. “Note, this isn’t a promise. This is a trial basis ‘yes.’ The first sign of internal bleeding, and no more fooling around.”

Tony started to pull him up, Steve yelped in surprised pain—and Tony froze, easing Steve back down. He’d heard plenty of Steve-in-pain over the last months, and Steve-in-pain muffled it, smothering his distress, hiding it from people. Hiding it from protective teammates, and doctors who wanted to keep him safely layered in bubble wrap. 

Steve whimpered, groaned, bit the inside of cheek, and told everyone he was “fine.” He didn’t _yelp_ , except on those rare occasions where he could help it. Today, apparently, was one of those awesome messed-up occasions.

Under less dire circumstances, Tony would’ve taken the time to scold, and lose his temper, and generally go the whole nine yards, yelling, “I told you so”s repeatedly, and with vindication. But Steve’s face had blanched white, and his breathing had picked up again, and if his expression was any indication he was already suffering the consequences of his actions, _in spades_.

Steve removed the hand covering his left side, displaying a bloody palm, which he stared down at with disbelief.

Tony checked any scathing remarks. Instead, he pulled out his cell and let his anger loose (along with the pertinent facts) upon a calm dispatcher who tried to keep him talking to her while the ambulance was on its way.

He was used to high-pressure stakes. He was _good_ at high-pressure stakes.

Maintaining pressure on the wound, Tony maneuvered himself around so he could

place Steve’s head on his lap, desperately not making direct contact with those confused blue eyes. Rocks bit into him through the fabric of his (very nice) pants, and his knees and already steadily numbing calves didn’t thank him.

Steve, however, _did_ —with a upwards look of gratitude and an earnest, “Sorry. M’sorry, Tony. I really didn’t feel it until I tried to move.”

“Hey,” Tony played it consummately flippant, “you’re the one who’s going to be hurting, here. Please, just tell me I’m not trying to stem the bleeding from a stab wound. Make it a splinter or something. A little scratch. Just lie to me. It should be easy for you. After all, you certainly didn’t have a problem a minute ago telling me you were _fine_.”

If Tony had been even a little worried about upsetting Steve by starting an argument in the middle of an already ugly situation, he shouldn’t have been.

Steve was infuriatingly serene. “It’ll be alright, Tony.” 

“Yeah, it will, because once that ambulance gets here, you’re going to be the model of a well-behaved patient. You’re going to do every last thing they tell you to do, and you’re going to enjoy it.” 

Steve gave a small nod.

“And no puppy dog eyes at the nurses. No wheedling for an early release. No playing Thor like a violin.”

Steve smiled tightly. “I’m saving it all up for Fury.” 

Tony sighed. “You’ve got to know, Steve, even without a trip to the ER, it would’ve just been a matter of time until Fury found out about this, anyway. One way or another, he just does.”

“Why? He doesn’t have to know.”

“Are you kidding me? There’s no way he’s not going to hear about Natasha and Clint

going on a rampage.”

“Rampage?”

Tony sighed again, long-suffering. “Yeah, a rampage: what assassins and spies do when one of their friends gets robbed and beaten up. It doesn’t take a genius to predict how they’re going to take this.” 

The look in Steve’s eyes was mildly horrified with the realization that Tony had to be right. “You can’t let them kill anyone. I mean…they wouldn’t, not…not, without reason,” he added numbly.

“Without _reason_?” Tony retorted. “Uh, I’m thinking _yes_ , actually. They totally would.” Tony looked down at Steve’s face—at the redness around his eyes already turning into bruises, and at the blood running from his nose.

“And you know what?” he added venomously, “I’m not stopping them.”

 

* * *

 

Thor did throw a fit. But rather then sending his hammer through a wall, or smashing up the room, he seethed in a quiet, dangerous way that made the air feel instantly hotter around him.

While Tony appreciated the fact that the god of thunder was not using his living room to vent his frustrations upon, the faint smell of burning ozone wasn’t exactly reassuring, either.

The only one seated was Clint, on the arm of the sofa, posture deceptively casual. Bruce and Natasha stood side by side: Bruce frowning, Natasha with stony mask in place.

News that something was up had gotten around fast without Tony needing to “assemble” them for a team conference. Apparently Bruce had asked JARVIS where Tony and Steve had gotten to, and JARVIS had told him, and Bruce had told Natasha…and, well, they’d all pretty much mobbed him for answers the moment he’d walked in the door. He wasn’t about to inform them that he’d actually come to the Tower for a quick change of clothes, and not with the express purpose of telling them what’d happened. Emergencies had a way of a narrowing your vision down to the next step, and the next step hadn’t involved detouring off-task: get out of bloodied clothes, and get back to the hospital ASAP.

“He’s in emergency surgery now to stop the internal bleeding from a nicked liver,” Tony informed his audience, hiding behind cool words while his brain kept thinking _blood_ , too much _blood_ , and Steve, laid out like a corpse on the gurney.

Small, so small and damaged. So easily crumpled and cast aside, left to bleed out in a back alley.

Tony cleared his throat, wishing it were that easy to clear away images. “Several broken ribs, and a cracked ulna in his left arm. Bruised kidney. Concussion…” As the dark looks around him became darker, Tony decided it was time to synopsize. “They did a number on him.” Which was a real no-brainer. He wouldn’t compound the obviousness of that statement by trying any other clichés out, as if any of them were looking to him to offer statements of reassurance that were beyond his power to guarantee.

“Who is responsible for this?” Thor seemed suddenly taller, and generally more looming. Tony could honestly say he’d never looked more ominous, even over the Powell Incident. 

“Most likely it was just a couple of guys who wanted some easy money—or a few laughs—or both. They took his wallet alright, but I get the feeling a couple of those blows they landed were just something extra, on the house, free of charge.”

“They harmed him because it _amused_ them?”

The air was crackling with electricity. Tony _knew_ that wasn’t just his imagination. Thor was ready to strike someone down with lightening, and it was enough to give them all cause to shiver. It was easy to forget Thor, easygoing and kind by nature, was a prince among “gods.” A warrior with eons of fighting under his belt, and more than a passing knowledge of the bitter cycle of grief and revenge.

Tony swallowed, resisting the urge to step back. It wasn’t cowardice to be afraid of an angry Thor, it was just common sense. 

“I’m sure Cap got in some blows of his own. But you won’t catch me defending their motives,” Tony replied evenly. It made his blood boil. The whole thing did. He was trying not to let his vision narrow down to the anger he was feeling when he knew Steve needed _someone_ to keep a level head.

“I’m sure it made them feel like real men, ganging up on the ninety-pound asthmatic,” Clint muttered darkly. “I hope Steve broke noses and hit below the belt.” 

Tony wondered, without any real charity, whether or not the muggers had really known the seriousness of the state they’d left Steve in. Maybe they hadn’t realized the level of damage they’d inflicted—hadn’t realized just how _breakable_ Steve was, because Steve hadn’t been acting like he was breakable. 

Then again, maybe they’d known exactly what they were doing. 

“I am sure he gave them more of a fight than they bargained on,” Natasha agreed darkly.

“If a fight is what they wanted,” Thor said, dangerously serene once more, “then a fight they shall have.” 

Tony tried to repress the part of him that was cheering wildly at the prospect of Thor going after the guys who’d just landed Steve in the hospital—he just didn’t try _too_ hard to suppress it. Because, really, the pictures his imagination was producing made him all warm inside.

“I am going to end them,” Clint interjected casually. Clearly, there were all kinds of bloody, foregone conclusions playing over in his mind, and he didn’t just _hope_ for a happy outcome, he could guarantee it.

“I’ll help.” Natasha gave a decisive dip of her chin.

“Hold on, guys,” Bruce said, supporting Tony in the role of voice of reason. He’d been standing quietly to the side, but they all recognized the sharp, flinty-eyed look of Bruce repressing the rage. “Don’t you need descriptions from Steve? Something to go on?” 

“They have Steve’s wallet,” Natasha pointed out.

“They’ll also still have damaged knuckles, the knife they used, and Steve’s blood on them, if we hurry,” Clint added.

“You two scare me sometimes,” Tony said—then, when they rounded on him with matching expressions, amended, “Make that _all the time_ , actually.”

Natasha gave a smooth smile and turned on her heel, Clint following.

“Just…no hanging and quartering, guys, huh?” Tony called after them. “Steve wouldn’t want that. Dings are one thing, but keep the dents to a minimum. Bring them back alive enough to be executed.”

Clint glanced over his shoulder with an unreadable expression, and no promises.

There was no stopping Thor from haring off, either. His expression was an open book. No one was going to say no to Thor when he was like this. No one.

Tony looked sidelong at Bruce. “Don’t tell me the Other Guy wants to go out and play with the other kids, too.”

“Oh, he wants to,” Bruce said quietly, so quiet the strain that made his voice quiver was almost— _almost_ —unnoticeable. “Believe me, he wants to.” 

Three hours later Tony had a stiff spine, a severe case of the shakes from too much caffeine and too little food, and a new and healthy disdain for whims of responsibility that left him waiting in a hospital next to Bruce while the rest of the team was off _avenging_ with wild abandon.

The time it took for Steve to come out of surgery was only half the wait. Each update on Steve came with more suggestions that they go get something to eat. Some sleep. Tony wanted to take them up on their advice, because the distraction would’ve been nice, but he knew that was only wishful thinking. He felt too nauseous to stomach anything, and as keyed up as he was there was no way he was going to get any sleep.

So he stayed, trying not to shoot evil glares at the woman pacing up and down the length of the waiting room, rocking a fussing infant and making soothing noises that grated on Tony’s nerves almost more than the baby’s squalling.

Finally Steve was out of post-op and settled in ICU, and one of them was allowed to see him. Tony looked to Bruce automatically, with a sense of not-quite-panic bubbling up. But Bruce had shaken his head and said, “No, Tony. You go. Whether you want to or not, you should.”

So he did.

Steve looked as bad as expected. Worse, actually. Tony hadn’t been afraid of what he might find, he’d been afraid of what he’d known he’d find. They’d just _gotten_ Steve out of a hospital bed. Or at least it felt that way.

The nurse had said he’d still be “out of it” for a while, not because the anesthesia hadn’t worn off yet, but because...well, _surgery_. He’d lost a lot of blood before they’d stopped the internal hemorrhaging, but he’d been given a transfusion and had come around briefly, and was now considered stable.

Tony didn’t ask why Steve was in ICU if things had gone so well. He knew without being told that Steve’s medical history had to place him in the at-risk-for-complications category, and right now he didn’t need another rundown on all the ways in which Steve’s health was far worse off than simply _not_ being up to a super soldier standard any longer.

There would be no rapid recovery, no overnight miracles. Recovery would be arduous. More arduous for Steve than the average, healthy guy. 

So Tony let the rest of the nurse’s words drift over his head until she finally stepped out of the room.

Steve was splinted together, and bandaged up, and I.V.-ed to a fault, but at least he wasn’t intubated, though he did have an oxygen mask. At least this time he was breathing on his own. Tony stood with his hands in his pockets, listening to the sound without feeling the need to clutter the air with the sound of his own voice. It was a rare moment, and it didn’t last long because he only had ten minutes, and people who visited people in the hospital said caring things at times like this even if the person couldn’t hear them.

He stepped closer to the bed, the sudden ache in his throat growing even as the tension in his chest uncurled. There were certain newfound fears of loss that he could hardly bring himself to admit, even to himself.

They were a team, not a family, and no matter how close they got they’d never be blood. But the last months had been like getting-to-know-you boot camp. The six of them had been getting along alright before Radner had “happened,” but getting along wasn’t the same as _not_ getting along all the time and still caring enough to stay. Or caring too much to do the selfish, natural thing, and run from other people’s pain.

They had all had plenty of time to see each other at their worst. Their most vulnerable. It made a difference, a painful difference. Being friends sounded easy in theory. It was, however, a skill that Tony felt wildly inept at now that he’d started to actually _try_ —and he hated being inept.

But as ill-practiced as Tony was at the Friends Thing, he wasn’t completely oblivious to things like unconditional love. People like Pepper, and Rhodey, had stuck by him through his worst moments, and now he was getting a taste of what it felt like to be the worried bystander. Steve hadn’t even _chosen_ to make a train wreck of his life, and he still felt irrationally angry at him for “letting” himself get dealt a lousy hand like this.

And he was probably down to five minutes, now, and he still hadn’t thought of anything profound to say.

“So, Steve…” he began, profoundly. “You look terrible. I mean, _really_ terrible. And don’t think I haven’t forgotten your ‘I’m fine, don’t take me to the hospital’ spiel, because I haven’t. You’re never going to live that down, and I fully intend to use it as ammunition against you for your own good. Granted, you’re _alive,_ which is definitely a mark in your favor. But we’ll definitely be revising your definitions of okay-ness to not include broken bones, concussions, or internal bleeding.” The dark circles under Steve’s eyes, and the even darker bruising that practically shadowed the left side of his face, were harsh against pale skin and pale sheets.

It was all so _brutal_ , Tony wanted to rant, not search for words of comfort. But he had to try, because the rest of the team was off killing people, and Bruce had sent him, and Tony Stark didn’t _do_ failure.

“Okay, look,” he tried again, wittiness hampered by the strange creak his voice, and the way words came out strangled. “I’m not heartless. You’ve got a grace period until you are, in fact, _fine_. But the doctors get to define when that stage is reached, since you’re clearly suffering from delusions of invulnerability.” The ache in his throat was suddenly back, without warning, his own words painfully ironic. Steve _had_ , in fact, been all but invulnerable not too long ago.

“You have anything to say in your defense?” Tony was prepared to barrel on, but Steve, as if he’d been waiting for Tony to stop talking long enough for him to interject, made a soft, garbled noise. Tony leaned in. “Steve? Hey. Glad you could join me. I’ve only been waiting _hours_ for the pleasure of your company.” 

“Sorry.” 

It was raspy, and hardly discernable through the impediment of the mask, but Tony heard the carefully spoken word, and could’ve rolled his eyes at how _Steve_ it was to wake up from surgery feeling apologetic instead of grouchy. “C’mon,” he said quietly, carefully resting a hand on Steve’s shoulder, “you can do better at giving me grief than _that_ , Cap. You’ve always managed in the past.” 

Steve opened his eyes a sliver. “Not...s’post to upset me. Nurse said.”

“Steve, you look many things right now,” Tony said, taking in the drugged-out glaze to Steve’s eyes, “but _upset_ isn’t one of them.”

“Mmm, you already said. Look terrible.”

Tony crossed his arms. “So you’ve been playing possum on me.”

Steve smiled a slow, drug-aided smile. And then promptly fell back asleep.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...more story! Yay? Anyone still there? XD 
> 
> I'm a clod for not having gotten around to an update weeks ago. A CLOD. Who humbly thanks you for your patience, if you're still following along.

“Um, wow.” Clint leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter. “Even for you, that’s pretty narcissistic.”

“Ooo, big word.” Tony held the teddy bear out at arm’s length. “You’re mistakenly assuming, however, that I require your opinion.”

Clint snorted, speaking through a mouthful of fried egg, “You _asked_.” 

“Shall I define rhetorical for you?”

Clint ignored his sarcasm, aiming, as ever, to be elaborate in his criticisms. “It’s stupid.”

“Sure.” Natasha drained her glass of milk and reached for the carton. “But the resemblance is uncanny.”

“Manners. _Thank_ you.” On second thought, Tony took another look at the teddy bear and its Iron Man costume and reweighed her comment in light of the ill-fitting helmet-“hoodie.” “I think.”

Thor, who was currently addicted to spinach and tomato omelets, was expertly dicing away at the cutting board while waiting for the butter to melt in the pan. “I am sure it will please the Captain no end.”

Tony could’ve sworn that Thor, even _Thor_ , was playing with him. “At least I got something for him,” he sniffed self-righteously.

“I got him a heaping dose of revenge,” Clint retorted.

Tony rolled his eyes and set the bear down on the counter, muttering, “And we all know you did that just for _Steve’s_ peace of mind…”

The look on his face, and Natasha’s, when they’d returned late that night had been nothing short of triumphant. The proverbial cat had caught a whole _flock_ of canaries.

Thor had been a little more crestfallen. Apparently the two of them had gotten to the muggers first, and thus taken first dibs on “subduing” them, and all that. He had, however, played his role in “compelling” them into the custody of “the Son of Coul.” By that point, Tony had texted them that Steve had come through the surgery and was doing well, or who knows what would’ve become of the two guys unlucky enough ( _stupid_ enough) to have been caught with Steve’s blood on their hands—figuratively and literally.

What SHIELD would do about handing the muggers over to the authorities and seeing to it that they were properly charged remained to be seen, but Tony had no doubt Coulson would arrange for the punishment to fit the crime. Whatever that entailed in this case.  Probably, they’d be begging to be locked up by the time Coulson was through explaining their situation to them.

After the first blush of triumph and relief, however, the collective mood had gone decidedly sour. They were all tired of the sense of fracture within the team. Even before the mugging, Tony’d had his suspicions that Steve was trying to distance himself from them a little—no doubt for their own sakes, to help them get on with the business of saving the world.

Like that was going to happen. They’d gotten on with saving the world _just fine_ , and Steve had to see he was a real part of that. They didn’t bring him in on the planning process just to make him feel better about himself. He had to see that. He _would_ see that.

Then the call had come earlier that today Steve was being moved out of the ICU. It wasn’t exactly a promise of speedy recovery, but it was the first step.

“What time do we depart for the hospital?” Thor interjected, cracking eggs one-handed into a glass bowl.

Tony checked his watch. It was still only a quarter past eight, and visiting hours didn’t start until nine. Even then, Steve probably wouldn’t be out of ICU yet, let alone settled into his new room. All of them descending upon him first thing was hardly advisable. He sighed. “Eh. Should probably hold the floodgates a while longer. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm him with our congratulations.”

“And our _presents_ ,” Clint added snidely.

“Now don’t get in a tizzy, there’s still time for you to shop. I’m sure you could find something cupid-themed, even at this time of year.”

Clint gave him a _men-have-died-for-less_ look.            

But before things could devolve, Bruce appeared in the doorway and the blank look of shock on his face was enough to bring everything to an instant halt.

Bruce didn’t wait to be prodded. “I just got a call from the hospital.” The blankness in his tone matched his face. “Steve went into sudden cardiac arrest.” He raised a hand against the onslaught of four voices demanding answers. “They got his heart going again, but I don’t know much more than that. They’re keeping him in a coma, and have him in a cath lab now.” In response to Thor’s obvious confusion he clarified, “Catheterization laboratory—an examination room with diagnostic imaging equipment. An ICD or a pacemaker will probably be…” he broke off, “well, we should wait for more information before we speculate.”

 _But this is bad. Really bad,_ was the underlying statement.

Forget having the air knocked out of him, Tony felt as if the whole room had taken a hit to the solar plexus.

The butter crackled in the skillet, burning, unheeded, and Thor set down the paring knife, food forgotten.

Then stools were scraping, and Natasha and Clint went synchronized again, standing with fists clenched.

“They’re not going to let you guys see him. Not now,” Bruce warned them. “Once they’re through in the lab, they’ll probably send him to the Cardiac ICU, with the goal of reducing stress factors as much as possible.” He didn’t back down from the implication that they were “stress factors.” If anything, he backed it up with a pointed look.

But Natasha had something else in mind. “We should never have handed them over to SHIELD.”

“We thought, then, that Steve would be alright,” Clint growled. “This changes things.”

“Steve _is_ going to be alright,” Tony growled back, then looked to Bruce for confirmation. “He is, right?”

“I…” Bruce cleared his throat and started again. “We don’t have all the information. But even the doctors probably don’t know the extent of the damage done to his heart yet. It’s too soon to guarantee anything.”

Damage. Heart damage. No guarantees.

Tony slumped forward, leaning both elbows on the counter, staring bleakly at the red-and-gold stuffed animal in front of him.

 

* * *

 

“There’s no undoing the scarring, of course, but they got a stint in fairly early, and there’s a new FDA approved S-ICD that’s considered less invasive the standard ICDs, so that’s a possibility if they decide… Tony?”

“ _What_?” The compassion that flooded Bruce’s face was enough to goad Tony’s glum mood into irritation.

If anything, Bruce looked even more concerned. Tired, and concerned. “You okay?”

Tony rubbed at gritty eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, fine. It’s just that I’ve heard the script before.” He knew what Ventricular Fibrillation was. He knew what scarred _heart_ tissue meant, and what all this chatter about “options” _really_ underlined. I.e., the fact that Steve’s options were limited. Forget discussing strategies to save the world, now Steve’s first priority was narrowed down to working on strategies to keep his own heart beating.

Finally, Bruce showed a less unnerving flash of very human frustration to match Tony’s. “Oh? And here I thought I was giving you an update.”

Tony appreciated it. He did. Or the _polite_ him appreciated it, and knew he should be doing the caring thing—for Bruce’s sake, and Steve’s—and listening patiently to every last word Bruce had to say. But he just couldn’t hear it.

Steve was worse off then before, which took some doing. All it took was something as innocuous sounding as a “VF episode,” and Steve was _worse off_ than _worse._ That was the bottom line that Bruce was willfully ignoring. 

“It’s not going to _fix_ anything,” Tony spat viciously, “None of it is.” None of it was going to magically erase the overwhelming host of health problems Steve encountered at every turn. None of their medical solutions were going to restore to Steve what the serum had given him. 

Bruce didn’t respond in kind. He stood with his hands in his pockets a moment longer before he sat down beside Tony on the couch with a sigh. “No, it’s not going to fix anything. His heart was weak to begin with—there’s his family history, and the scarlet fever he had as a kid, just to name a few things. I’m not about to give you false hope,” he said at last, finding an unhappy medium between kindness and bluntness, and telling Tony what he really needed to hear. “I’ve insisted on the truth, and I think the doctors have been open with me. His heart _is_ damaged. How much this is going to effect his quality of life and health—” 

“—His _health_?” Tony broke off into a bout of heart-felt swearing that didn’t faze Bruce in the least. “What health?” he choked, voice pitched too high. “He _doesn’t have any health._ He’s a walking miracle. It’s a wonder he survived long enough to become a guinea pig, let alone survive _being_ a guinea pig, let alone surviving for _decades_ frozen into a chunk of ice, let alone—” He jerked and ground to a halt as Bruce’s hand settled on his shoulder.

“Tony, we’re all worried. And you’re right, Steve doesn’t have a lot going for him right now. Except us. So, what we’re going to do is keep it _together_.”

“We are?” Tony laughed feebly.

“Yes. We _are_.”

Tony met Bruce’s gaze and felt the calm there bore into him like a challenge. If Bruce, the original Green Rage Monster™, could keep his cool—“keep it together”—then Tony wasn’t about to be shown up.

He let out a slow breath. “It’s just all so…precarious.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow pragmatically. “Life generally is. More than people realize. At times like this, it’s just at the forefront of your mind.”

“Don’t get philosophical on me. I’m just _this_ close,” Tony used thumb and forefinger to demonstrate the half-inch margin, “to bona fide hysteria.”

“Think how Steve must feel.”

“Now you’re preaching,” Tony grumbled, “and being _right_. Don’t get too smug, though. The fleeting urge to think of others before myself has, in fact, come to me several times before, but it’s never done me any lasting damage.”

His own words hung suspended for a moment, stinging, breaking the small rapport that had been building.

Bruce gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You said it yourself. He’s a walking miracle.”

 

* * *

 

But “Walking Miracle” was not the first thing that came into Tony’s mind when, several days later, he was finally allowed in to see Steve (after scrubbing his hands raw, donning a hospital mask, and leaving all teddy bears and other potential germ-carrying-objects behind). 

It wasn’t hard to see why the nurses were being so vigilant about enforcing cleanliness. Steve definitely didn’t look up to wrestling with a cold. He didn’t look up to much of anything. 

Tony sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “So. You scared me out of several more years of my life. Thank you. And how are you doing on this disgustingly sunny day?”

Steve laughed obligingly, but it was a frail sound crowded on all sides by the ambient noises of the hospital. But Steve was _trying_ —still trying. Trying to reciprocate, and be normal about this, even though they’d driven past “Normal” several years ago.

Steve laughed to try to reassure _him_.

Really, he wasn’t the stick-in-the-mud Tony had assumed he’d be when they’d first met. Overly serious sometimes, sure. The Soul of Responsibly, definitely. But stick-in-the-mud? Nah. Turned out the same niceness that made him the kind of guy who rescued kittens from trees also made him too nice a guy to let a good joke fall flat. Or even a good _attempt_ at a joke.

 

Clint’s dry humor. Natasha’s morbid sense of humor. Tony’s sarcasm. Thor’s tall tales. They’d all made Steve laugh, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes with private satisfaction—because even Tony could admit there was something incredibly rewarding about getting a real, deep _laugh_ out of Steve.

 

But right now Steve was regarding him with somber eyes, ringed by purple-green bruises, and hollow with the insatiable exhaustion of the ill. His laugher only drained him.

And still he had that _look_ in his eye.

Tony quickly held up a finger. “Oh no. No reassurances. You don’t get to reassure _me_. I reject all attempts preemptively. I’m…I’m supposed to do that. For you. Right?”

“Tony,” Steve’s tone was gentle beneath the irony, “it’ll be—” 

“—Of course it will. We’ll figure something out.”

Steve’s didn’t say anything, but there was something aggravating about the patience in his steady gaze.

“We will. Bruce has been taking a second look at several promising new ideas for recreating the serum, and I think…I _know_ we’ll fix this, somehow. Maybe not soon—as in, within the next hour or two—but…somehow. Soon- _ish_.”

“Or we could just be realistic.”

“Not funny, Steve. I’m _brilliant_. Solutions are entirely realistic where I’m concerned. And I am,” he swallowed, “concerned. With the solution.”

“And I appreciate it. But there is middle ground here, Tony.” Steve’s words began to slur around the edges with weariness. 

“Middle ground.” 

“Between you feeling like you have to ‘fix’ this, and me _needing_ to be ‘fixed’ back to being Captain America.” He raised an eyebrow in a pale approximation of sardonic self-derision. “I may not be able to play full-contact sports anymore, or run up the stairs, but I’m not _dead_.”

Tony swallowed back several responses, because there wasn’t much he could say in response to that that wouldn’t be outright cruel. No one knew better than Steve just how far from Captain America this wasted and sickly body was. How much like death it had to seem by comparison. 

Steve smiled—or his eyes did, at least, as if anything more felt too ambitious. “Yeah. I know. What am I even talking about? Look at me. That’s what they call putting a brave face on things.”

“You’re good at that.”

“Thanks.” The smile faded, his eyes beginning to droop. “Kind of tiring, though. Think maybe I’ll take a break for a while.”

“ _Don’t_.” Tony surprised them both with the forcefulness of his own reaction. 

“Why not?” 

“Because…” _Taking a break_ from putting a brave face on things would’ve been smothering Steve Rogers’ real source of strength. If it was blindingly obvious to Tony, than Steve had to see it. “Because,” he finished with more finality. “You just shouldn’t stop.”

“O…kay,” Steve picked his way carefully over the word. “I won’t, then.”

“Okay.” Tony nodded. He didn’t care if Steve was condescending to the whims of an eccentric man. He was grasping at straws for both of their sakes. If humoring him and faking optimism kept Steve from flat-out throwing in the towel and calling it a life, then that had to count for something. “I’ll keep you updated on the progress.” 

But Steve was already asleep.

 

* * *

 

Tony _had_ assumed he was the one doing the worst job of coping. Until Clint all but strangled one of the doctors before Natasha could intervene.

Not that Clint’s reaction was what Tony would describe as uncalled for, given the fact that the doctor had just uttered the phrase “assisted living” in regards to Steve’s “future care.”

The doctor was just doing his job. They were doing their best to recommend a medically responsible yet reasonable course of action for Steve once he was out of the hospital, and it wasn’t their fault that all acceptable courses of actions were completely _unacceptable._

It wasn’t their fault that just about every word they said made Tony want to punch something.

Steve wasn’t dying. He just wasn’t exactly returning to what your average human being might consider the state of having a _life_. His injures from the mugging were slowly, slowly healing.

His heart, on the other hand… Well. That was another matter. There were still weeks and months of healing, and waiting, and watching ahead. Dead muscle and tissue were being converted into fibrous scarring. There were more tests and vigilant monitoring, and talk. Lots of talk—for the doctors, from SHIELD, via Coulson—about what came next for Steve.

Steve, true to his word, kept a brave face on it. Tony, true to his nature, railed against the entire situation. And kept looking for answers. If he couldn’t recreate the serum, then he’d just have to start looking at this from another angle. He’d invented a way to save his own heart, and he could invent a way to save Steve’s, too.

But the _wrongness_ of it all kept creeping over them all. It was overwhelmingly unfair. Despite their name, “avenging” hadn’t been much a part of what they did. They _saved_. They dredged catastrophes to find the happy ending. The only _possible_ ending.

Steve kept hoping, and that was the cruelest irony of all: out of the whole slew of problems he had, his _heart_ was the organ to give up on him. Steve, whose heart didn’t give up on anyone else. 

 

* * *

 

“…They’ll keep analyzing his bloodwork for clues, of course,” Bruce said, leaning his elbows on the table and absently massaging his left temple, “but, at the moment, the doctors are at loss to explain the turn for the worse.”

“They’ll keep looking—for _clues_?” Tony barked into the silence of the hospital’s small family conference room, with its cozy “comforting” pale yellow paint. “He’s not a game, Bruce. He’s not a Sudoku puzzle, or a crossword, or something you can just toss away because you’re _stumped_. He’s—”

“—He’s _sick_ , Tony. Very sick. His heart was bad enough. Now…” Bruce hung his head, dejected. “Now, it’s like his body’s giving out, rejecting everything that’s thrown at it. His metabolism is all over the place—burning through antibiotics, and fluids, and pain meds in a split second, without any of it doing any apparent good.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s like none of it registers. He’s just wasting away.” If his voice hitched from the restraint of emotion, none of them held it against him. “It’s like he’s experiencing all the disadvantages of the serum without any of the reward. And if the fevers keep spiking, and he can’t put on some weight, the danger to his heart…” He swallowed. “The docs are doing everything they can to treat the symptoms, but as for the _cause_ , they’ve got nothing to go on.”

The bleakness in Bruce’s tone blotted out Tony’s need to rant. He couldn’t, not when it’d only be kicking a man when he was already down.

The rest of the Avengers were numb to the news, and soon he was, too.

Tony had assumed that they’d already reached at rock bottom, but it’d been a mistake. Assumptions usually were.

No, rock bottom wasn’t just seeing Steve laid low with little hope for real recovery. Rock bottom was watching Steve wasting away in front of their eyes, hurting. Dying.

The “hurting” part made it hard to sit still, even for Thor and Bruce. Bruce had helped to concoct a painkiller cocktail that gave Steve some relief, but the doctors were afraid of an overdose, considering how underweight he was. 

This time, the vigil felt more like a deathwatch. When they left they each worried that they would come back to find Steve dead, and when they returned it was hard to stay.                                 

Natasha seemed to have tapped into some kind of strength that Tony ungrudgingly admired. Feverish, or semi-lucid—whatever state Steve was in—she’d pull up a chair, and rest a hand against the side of his face, and murmur soothing things for hours, the curtain of her hair hiding any expression.

Tony knew he couldn’t summon that kind of finesse. But, hey—when had the potential for embarrassment ever held him back?

It was nearly midnight when Steve stirred during Tony’s vigil, and Tony didn’t hesitate.

“Steve?” He gripped Steve’s hand, careful not to jar the I.V.s. Careful not to crush bone that felt all-too-crushable. “ _Steve_?” He leaned in. “You with me, Steve?”

Steve’s eyelids twitched. “Unfortunately.”

“I know it hurts, Cap, and we’re working on—”

Steve interrupted with a weak laugh. “No—meant _you_.” His eyes slid open. “Annoying. Like a fly.”

Tony sat back without relinquishing his hold on Steve’s hand. “Well, _ingrate_. I may not be able to enthrall you with Russian lullabies—or war chants, or whatever epic bedtime stories the Ninja’s been telling you—but I’m _here_ , buzzing just as soothingly as possible, now aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” Steve said softly, “you are.”

“And yet I sense more mockery.”

“You’ve been…a good friend, Tony.”

“Oh, no— _no_. None of that, Cap. I’m not sitting here and listening to you bid me a fond farewell. We’re not there. Not even close.”

“Fine. I’ll ask Bruce write it down then, for later,” Steve said pragmatically. He blinked sluggishly, the blush of a fever stark on his cheeks against his general pallor. “I don’t have much to will to anyone, but I never even got the chance last time, so I figure as long as I’m coherent enough I’d also like to go over—”

“— _Stop it_ , Steve. Just…stop.”

Steve’s expression softened in understanding, even while the crease of pain remained etched between his eyebrows.

Tony hated that look. He hated the pain, and the fact that Steve was beginning to clearly long to be free from it in a way that had nothing to do with recovery, or pulling through.

He hated the whole thing too much for words.

“Okay,” Steve agreed with a soft sigh.

“Okay.” Tony clenched and unclenched his jaw. “How’s the pain— _really_?”

Steve was still for a moment, assessing. “I ache all over. It’s like the flu, or something. Only it hurts…deeper. And I’m always cold. I hate being cold.”

He inhaled sharply and shivered—Tony felt it run through his hand, and he gripped Steve’s hand a little tighter. 

“There I think I can help you.”

By the time Tony had hailed a nurse and got her to bring a stack of warmed blankets Steve was drifting again, but he managed to rally enough to chide Tony.

“You look awful, by the way,” he murmured. “Should go home, sleep…”

“Shut up and relax, would you? I’ll take that advice just as soon as it comes from a more reputable-looking source.”

“I’m Captain America,” he pointed out as an argument-ender. And, yeah, there was that.

“You’re letting this thing beat you,” Tony retorted, and turned Steve’s own point back at him: “You’re _Captain America_ , and you’re giving up. What kind of a message does that send to the boys and girls of this proud country, huh?”

Steve smiled, but it was careworn, aging him with that far-off look of a soldier who’d seen things, been places, and come back again to find _being home_ the simplest and best of luxuries. “Believe it or not, Tony, I don’t actually want to die. When I first woke up after the ice, maybe there was a while when I…” he faltered, “I lost hope. I didn’t want to die then, either, not really—but I didn’t know how to go on. I didn’t see how anyone in this century could ever come to mean as much to me as the people from ‘ _my_ ’ time. But I was wrong. You guys—the team—you mean the world to me, and…” his gaze went to Tony’s, begging him to believe, “I don’t want to die.”

His voice had gone hoarse from his outburst, and Tony felt sick at the note of pleading. Like Steve thought he had some answer for him, or (worse) as if Tony might give him permission. _Well done, Soldier. You did what you could. You’ve earned a break._

Not a chance. Steve had earned his break, alright, but Tony refused to believe the only break he’d get on this earth would be when he got to _exit_ this earth. 

“Then don’t die,” Tony said, firmly.

“That easy, huh?”

“That easy.” 

Steve’s eyes fluttered. He groaned, “Not like you guys expect the impossible of me, or anything…”

Tony shrugged. “In our defense, Cap, you kind of specialize in ‘the impossible. ’” 

Steve grunted in amusement, and kept taking slow breaths that rasped slightly in a way that made Tony tired just to listen to them.

It made him feel like a bully, sitting there whole and healthy, telling a scrawny _kid_ to pull himself up by his bootstraps and will himself to get over being chronically ill and sickly. 

And Tony saw, with a pang of directionless anger, just how selfish it was to want Steve to keep being that stalwart beacon of enduring optimism that the Avengers had come to rely on. Steve might pull through, and linger as an invalid for the rest of his life. He might live, and never recover from the damage to his heart. They’d do everything they could for him, but in the end would it really be enough? 

Steve relaxed into sleep, and Tony ran a hand over his gritty, dry eyes, and prayed to God—the God Steve still seemed to think was up there listening—that this wasn’t the end.

 

* * *

 

Clint, feet up on the table, threw a green rubber ball at the wall. It rebounded, and he caught it.

Rinse. Repeat. The thudding as it smacked the wall continued monotonously like a heartbeat.

Natasha had her elbows on the table, chin resting in the palm of her hand.  She was dry-eyed but sad, and somehow the fact that she was beyond pretending otherwise worked like permission on the rest of them.

Although Thor had never really needed permission, and Clint’s version of sad looked mostly just surly lately, like a cat who’d been rubbed the wrong way one too many times.

Thor, arms crossed, broke the silence after another ten minutes: “Surely Doctor Banner should have returned by now.”

“Bad news always takes longer,” Tony interjected sullenly. “It’s all the excuses they have to elaborate on. All the ‘we did our best’s they’ve got to use to placate the _bereaved_ with.”

“Way to lighten the mood, Stark,” Clint growled.

“You’re welcome, Sunshine,” Tony growled back.

“You know, _this_ is the reason the doctors insist on relaying any news about Steve through Bruce…” Natasha observed with a sigh.

Clint and Tony shut up, then, because they knew they were squarely to blame for the bad conduct that had made a liaison necessary. None of the medical staff were overly fond of any of the Avengers these days, despite their understanding, but the two of them had made their presence known with unique bluntness.

Never mind that Tony privately agreed with the staff that it was generally better to hear the news from Bruce. He was hardly going to admit it, but he would abide by it, if only because he was too exhausted to keep hunting down the answers he didn’t want to hear.

“I am weary of this room,” Thor said, voice gravelly as he stared at the far wall of the conference room. 

Looking at him, Tony was overcome with the sleep-deprived urge to just give the guy a hug already. A “god” he might be, but when it came to grief he wore it openly and the sight of Thor on the verge of tears was enough to move anyone.

Even Natasha, apparently. She reached over to touch his shoulder in commiseration, using the same light touch she’d come to reflexively use to comfort Steve. Thor smiled wanly in appreciation and his posture relaxed, if only fractionally.

This was the point where Steve would’ve given some rallying speech to raise morale. Or at least he’d have given Tony something to roll his eyes at. 

Clint, of all people, spoke up with a sort of self-antagonistic gruffness, even as he tried to put a good face on things: “He seemed…in good spirits. Steve, I mean. That counts for something, right?”

No one contradicted him, or mentioned that Steve had also still seemed in a lot of pain, or that Steve had still looked frail enough to be crush with a hard look. Or that Steve was, crucially, _still not getting better_.

“We will not give up on him,” Thor added staunchly. 

“I should say not,” Bruce said, just entering. 

They all sat up straighter, because Bruce was…different. Beneath the several-days’ growth of beard, and despite the grayish cast to his face, and the unkempt state of his hair, he was…

“You’re smiling,” Tony said, appraising Bruce’s expression for any traces of manic delirium. “You’re _smiling_ ,” he reiterated, for lack of a better accusation. 

Maybe it was _him_ that had lost his marbles, and he was hallucinating the prospect of good news.

But the others proved to be equally wary.

“What gives, Doc?” Clint eyes were narrowed, and he finally stopped throwing the bouncy ball, gripping it in his left hand.

Natasha stood, chair scraping as she pushed it back. “You alright, Bruce?”

Bruce shook himself out of a daze, and groped with one hand to find the back of the nearest chair, leaning into it for support. “I’m fine. I’m…just stunned. The doctors don’t know what to make of it.”

“Make of _what_?” Tony demanded, ready to browbeat him now, and apologize later. Bruce had been getting into the habit of zoning out on them, lately, lost even deeper in his thoughts than usual. 

“Sorry—sorry.” Bruce held up a hand, finding physical and mental equilibrium. “It’s Steve’s heart. The scars…they’re _healing_.”

Clint’s shoulders slumped.

Tony agreed with Clint. “Don’t get me wrong, Doc, that’s great, but you already told us that he’d begun to form scar tissue. That still doesn’t tell us how he’s going to do long term with the damage, right?”

Bruce shook his head emphatically. “That’s not what I meant. The scars _themselves_ are healing. Disappearing—slowly, but disappearing, nonetheless.”

“That means—” Natasha gasped, and then cut herself off, breathlessly staring at Bruce in hope.

Bruce smiled kindly at them all. “Too soon to be certain, but it certainly _looks_ like the work of the serum. Scar tissue doesn’t just vanish completely like that. And given the way his metabolism’s been acting up, it would seem logical to assume that the serum…” he shook his head in wonder, “…it’s making some kind of comeback, after all.”

The doctors had probably cautioned him, but he didn’t tell them not to get their hopes up. How could he, when he’d already gotten his own hopes up?

“Well, it took its sweet time about it,” Tony griped without heat.

It was Natasha that hazarded: “But if he the serum is coming back, why isn’t _he_ …coming back?”

“He is, if anything, thinner than before,” Thor rumbled discontentedly, distress still evident in his eyes.

Bruce sighed, letting go of the chair and rocking back on his heels, hands tucked into his pockets. “That’d be the million dollar question. The doctors are going to run some blood tests again. We’ll be searching for answers, monitoring his progress. At this point, for all we know he’ll still never recover all the way.” He glanced at Tony. “That machine your father built might’ve played a crucial part in his actual transformation and the stimulation of muscle growth—a part that I don’t know how to replicate. What’s more, we don’t know what Radner did to reverse the serum—or ‘ _steal_ ’ it—or whatever he did to Steve.” A steely look came into his eyes, as he added firmly, “But I, for one, just want to see Steve healthy enough to live a normal life. If the serum can do that much, I’ll be grateful, and I think Steve will be grateful, too.”

None of them could argue with that, but it was still a rollercoaster ride of hope and disappointment and confusion, nonetheless.

“We should go tell Steve,” Natasha said impulsively, a soft look easing away the vacant sadness in her eyes. “You’re right, Bruce. If it can heal his heart, and give him back his life, that’s what matters most.”

Tony didn’t say anything to refute it, and he wouldn’t. If Steve’s survival was the only miracle they were going to get, then he’d take it.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I put down "15" chapters, that was a bit of guesstimate, since I wasn't sure how much I'd be posting per chapter...and I could stretch out this last part for another chapter or two, but I decided that since I'm finished implementing the edits my beta suggested, I might as well give it to you all in one go. :)
> 
> So here it is! Le Finale, all in one go. ;)

It wasn’t long before Steve began to resemble something like the normal Steve. The _new_ normal Steve that was still all skin and bones, but firmly “just sickly,” instead of wasting away into nothing.

And wasn’t it truly a sign of how far they’d come that _this_ Steve was beginning to genuinely feel like the Steve they’d known along.

When they finally got the green light to let Steve finish convalescing at the Tower, JARVIS greeted Steve in a way that should’ve made Tony jealous. 

Pepper hugged him in a lingering way that _definitely_ should’ve made him jealous.

But mostly Tony was just happy to have the status quo, as they now knew it, settling comfortably back into routine.

What with Coulson’s frequent visits, Pepper’s coddling, and JARVIS’s watchfulness, there was hardly a need for the nurse Tony brought back to monitor Steve’s condition.

Of course, it took a small army to keep an eye on Steve once he decided he was sufficiently well to get back to normal activities.

“Sir,” JARVIS interrupted Tony in the lab, a week after Steve had been released from the hospital, “you wished me to inform you if the Captain showed any signs of over-exerting himself.”

“What’s he done now?” Tony said, setting aside his project with a sweep of his hand over the electronic blueprints. He had a new and frustrating sympathy for prematurely graying parents all over the world who had to suffer through the heart-attack-inducing antics of their children.

Dear God. He really was becoming Pepper. _This_ was what it was like to be Pepper.

He’d commiserate, later.

“He’s in the gym, Sir.”

Tony didn’t hear the rest of what JARVIS said—about Steve’s vitals not reflecting any overt signs of reparatory or cardiac distress—because he was bee-lining it for the gym. All he could see was Steve the last time he’d tried “a little work out,” and Tony didn’t need a repeat of listening to him gasp for air, suffocating on nothing. They weren’t going there again. Ever.

“Just stay okay for a few minutes, Cap,” he muttered. “Just a few. Is that really too much to ask?”

Steve was on the treadmill, not quite flat-out running, but working up a good sweat. His hair was plastered to his skull, his arms up, fists clenched.

Tony put his hands on his hips. “You’re a lunatic.”

Steve turned his head, and broke out into a hi-there, look-at-me-Tony grin. He was flushed, and panting.

No suffocating, no wheezing. Just the heavy breathing of an average guy working up a sweat.

He wasn’t Captain America, but neither did he look like a man with one foot in the grave.

“Look,” Steve panted, still grinning, “no asthma.”

Tony composed himself, panic still fluttering in his chest. He owed Pepper. Big time. “No asthma,” he repeated faintly. “You had to test it out by running a marathon.”

“I started slow.”

 

“JARVIS?”

“He did take a fifteen minute warm-up at walking pace before increasing speed,” JARVIS confirmed.

Steve finally caught on to Tony’s mood and slowed the treadmill down before finally turning it off. 

Tony resisted the urge to shake him as he came over to stand in front of him, mildly sheepish, but still far too happy to be genuinely apologetic. 

But, seeing as he was fairly _glowing_ with health—especially when Tony compared him to the frail and bedridden Steve of what felt like yesterday—Tony didn’t have the heart to be as angry as is newly-developing inner parent would’ve demanded.

Steve put a hand on Tony’s shoulder, and his grip felt warm. Firm. And, yeah, a little disgustingly sweaty, too. His breathing was already evening out.

Tony hung his head, suddenly feeling like _he_ was the frail one. “This isn’t going to better over night, Cap.”

 _This_. This team. None of them were going to bounce back in an instant, just because Steve was starting to return. And they didn’t know where this recovery was going to end. Steve couldn’t have really _known_ that his asthma wasn’t going act up the moment he started jogging.

Steve and his suddenly meek eyes were not going to make Tony feel like a jerk just because he cared.

“ _Slow_ , Cap. You take this slow. No slinking off and experimenting like this. You got it?” 

“Okay.”

They stared off for a minute until Tony was satisfied that Steve meant it. Then he related with a chuckle, “No asthma. That’s…that’s great. That’s pizza-and-movie, team-get-together great.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “All that?”

“All that. But first, a shower. You stink bad, Cap.” 

Tony liked to imagine Steve’s face, beneath the sweaty glow, looked just a little less thin.

 

* * *

A few more days passed uneventfully before the inexplicable collapse took place. 

This time, Thor was nearest. Thor, who appeared with Steve cradled in his arms, and gave them _all_ a heart-attack, because the picture they made was far, far too reminiscent of when they’d first found Steve back in Radner’s lab.

But Steve wasn’t frail or broken. JARVIS’ scans quickly reassured them that the reason for Steve’s blackout was not due to any heart problems, or any of the more familiar medical complications. He was dehydrated, and feverish.

A few hours (and an IV with a saline drip) later, Steve woke groggily, scanning the faces around him in bewilderment.

“What happ’nd?” he mumbled, then coughed.

Thor helped him sit up and take a drink of water. 

“You collapsed from dehydration,” Bruce informed him, a full lecture contained in the way he was staring at Steve.

Steve shifted in the bed, frowning. “I’ve been drinking.”

“Clearly not enough,” Tony snapped.

Bruce responded more tactfully, already softening, because the guy could never stay firm where Steve was concerned. “You metabolism is changing, Steve. Maybe it’s not back to what it was, but your body’s still going to need more water.”

“And more food,” Thor added, eyes flinty.

“Lots more food,” Clint agreed.

Natasha smoothed his covers, lips a thin line.

Steve’s eyes smiled, even if he looked wrung out. “Okay—okay, guys. I’m sorry. I didn’t _mean_ to do that. I’ll be more careful.”

They were all more careful.

But Steve was true to his word. He ate enough food to impress even Thor, sitting back in his chair at the end of each diligently-devoured meal, eyes drooping.

Once, he actually face-planted in his plate. That was when they realized that extra sleep was also on the list of things that Steve needed more of at the moment.

“Is it just me, or does he look taller?” Clint asked, observing Steve, who was passed out on the couch, as was becoming Steve’s new favorite way to end an evening.

“Mmm,” Natasha, seated near his head, pressed a hand gently to Steve’s forehead, “it’s not just you. He’s filling out a bit, too. You can see it in his face.”

“Any fever?” Bruce asked, setting aside the newspaper. Steve had been spiking a mild temperature off and on since the first collapse, and JARVIS had been monitoring him.

“Just a little warm,” Natasha answered, her hand moving from his forehead to the side of his face. “Just growing pains,” she murmured, smiling. “He’s coming back to us.”

Bruce didn’t quash their faith with any of his “let’s be realistic” speeches. They were all beginning to hope this meant what it _seemed_ to mean: more than just a partial restoration to health. This meant he as coming back all the way. 

“We need to get him a growth chart, like for kids,” Clint suggested, only half-joking.

 

***

 

Steve was good-natured enough to humor them with the Captain-America-themed growth chart they taped to the doorframe of the kitchen directly off the rec-room.

On the Thor eating regimen he outgrew the chart in no time, and suddenly he was entering what Tony knew they were all mentally labeling the Teenager Stage.

It wasn’t just that Steve was gawky—and he was gawky. All long limbs, and still re-developing muscles (and still re-developing memory of how to _use_ those muscles).

The thing was…Steve was _emotional_.

Granted, it might’ve been do partly to the crash-and-burn factor of just having been through one crisis after another, but even so. They’d all seen Steve handle stress, and they’d seen him react badly, too. Out of anger, frustration, sadness… This wasn’t just stressed-out or angry Steve.

This was Steve being _moody_.

And clumsy.

The two factors were largely connected (cause, meet effect), and Tony couldn’t blame him. It was comical at times, the way he tripped over air, but they could all sense he was also hitting rock bottom: tired of his body betraying him, and making him so weak, and out-of-control, and _undignified_. The fact that the current cause was a positive one didn’t prevent it from pushing him over the edge of what he could handle with equanimity.

So they tried not to take too much amusement out of it, even if there was something undeniably funny (okay— _adorable)_ about getting to watch Cap go through that awkward “teenage” stage with all the grace of a wobbly-legged newborn foal. 

Steve had also arrived at a stage where he wanted— _needed_ —to be more physically active, and Thor was all too happy to resume his place as Steve’s favorite sparring partner. 

Steve clearly struggled with irritation at the way Thor treated him with kid gloves, but even in his current state of pseudo-teenage angst Steve was mature enough to understand that he wasn’t quite ready to have the god of thunder come at him full-throttle.

But he was improving. His reflexes, his stamina, his whole build. A little broader in the shoulders. A little more solid, more _permanent_ , each day.

Thor amped his game up gradually, and the rest of them watched out of the corners of their eyes as Steve threw himself into meeting the challenge.

One day, when Thor swung and Steve didn’t dodge fast enough, they cringed as he got clipped hard in the shoulder and went flying back. 

“Captain? Are you alright?” Thor took a step forward to help him up.

But Steve was already sitting up, gripping his shoulder and curling forward.

Then his shoulders began to shake.

Just when Thor was beginning to look really worried (guilty, for being the one to actually drive Steve to _tears)_ , the sound of Steve’s muffled laughter filled the quiet gym. 

He was borderline hysterical for a moment, before he looked up at Thor with a self-deprecating smile plastered on his face. “I must be quite a sight.”

Thor smiled in relief, offering him a hand up. “Walk before you run. That is the saying, is it not?” 

“Yeah, but not ‘fall on your butt’ or ‘stagger around like a fool who never learned to duck a punch.’” He sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “It’s just maddening. I’m so…so _slow_.”

“Then we shall go slowly. For now.”

Steve lifted his fists, bouncing lightly on his feet, getting back into the non-rhythm of evasive footwork. “For now,” he agreed, and they all of them took yet more relief out of the show of familiar tenacity.

Over the course of the next week, the highlight was definitely the amount of food Steve had begun to consume, now without any reservations. He managed to pack more into his still-scrawny body than should’ve been humanly possible—and Thor was over the moon to be able to “feast” properly again with the “Shield Brother” he’d always hit it off with from the start.

They fought, and they pigged out, and generally made a pretty comical duo: Thor, broad and loud and _god_ -like; Steve, comparatively soft-spoken, klutzy kid brother material. 

Less pleasant was the part where Steve’s “growing pains” began to take the “pain” part more seriously.

Natasha, at a tip from JARVIS, was the first to discover Steve curled-up in an aching ball of misery.

“Steve?” She put a hand on his shoulder.

He cracked an eye open. “Hi, Nat.” His nonchalance wasn’t convincing. 

“You’ve got a fever again, don’t you?”

“You’re a tattletale, JARVIS,” Steve muttered with only a weary trace of irritation.

“I apologize, Captain,” JARVIS replied, “for the need to invade your privacy. I assure you, the protocols put in place are only there to ensure your wellbeing, and not intended to make you feel under scrutiny.”

“I know, JARVIS. I know. Not your fault.” To Natasha, he added, “I’ve been drinking enough, and eating enough, and sleeping, too. But I’m still so tired.”

Natasha perched carefully on the edge of the couch, near his head. “Maybe Bruce should look you over.”

Steve shook his head. “I think it’s just part of the process. Reminds me of the first time.”

“The first time?”

“When they injected me with the serum. One of the worst things I’ve ever felt in my life. I could feel each change, _deep down_ , you know? To muscle and bone. I thought…I thought for a while that my heart was actually going to explode.”

“And you hurt like that now?” 

“No,” Steve hastened to assure her. “It’s not nearly that intense. Just…some of it’s like that. It’s familiar, like that, only slower.” He shivered. “Skin feels too tight. Everything aches.” More softly, he finished, “I’ll be okay. Got through it the first time.” 

“Sure,” Natasha agreed easily. “You’ll get through it, Cap. Mind if I stay?” 

He shrugged a little. “’K.”

She settled back, tucking her feet up beneath her, a hand still on Steve’s shoulder. “JARVIS? Would you inform Dr. Banner of the situation, and ask him to bring something to help with the pain?” 

“Certainly, Agent Romanov.”

“Nat—”

“—Hush, Steve.”

“But my metabolism…”

She dug the tips of her fingers in, lightly massaging his shoulder and neck muscles. “Your metabolism isn’t quite up to speed yet. And even if were, Bruce can come up with _something_ to take the edge off.” 

“Perhaps I could also turn up the heat for you, Captain?” JARVIS suggested. 

“Thanks, JARVIS.” He stiffened, then, as Natasha dug the heel of her palm into the muscles at the base of his neck.

“Too much?” she asked.

He let out a breath, whimper muffled by the way he had his face pressed against the couch cushion. “Please don’t stop.”

By the time Bruce got there, he was already drowsy, and warm, and beginning to uncurl from his ball of misery.

 

* * *

 

Steve still looked barely past puberty—still had the lanky, not-quite-proportional growth-spurt thing going on—but he looked enough like the Steve they were used to for them to almost forget he wasn’t one-hundred-percent. He’d also remembered enough coordination and grace to not continually be tripping over himself.

And he’d been cleared to come on the mission.

Well—to be precise, he’d been cleared to ride in a surveillance van and direct things over the comms. Which was, admittedly, an anticlimactic capacity to have Cap in for their first mission back together. But it was infinitely better than no Cap at all, and none of them complained (too loudly). 

Their complaints died away altogether when Cap started giving the orders, calm and strategic—and his voice? There was no discordance there, no crack or hesitation. No hint of the frail and sickly Steve Rogers who had almost died from a heart attack. It sounded exactly like the Cap they’d all come to rely on, which made today close enough to normal to put a stupid grin on all their faces, even the Hulk’s.

Just another day at the office. Avengers assemble. They’d all missed this more than they realized, and the enthusiasm was contagious.

Tony could admit it, at least to himself (and maybe later to Steve, too, over a celebratory glass of something expensive): it felt good to have him back in his rightful capacity as Captain Know-it-All.

“ _They’re still coming from the meteorite,_ ” Steve said, and even his wet-blanket gravity couldn’t dampen their spirits, “ _and they’re getting bigger, guys_. _Hawkeye_ —”

“—I’m trying to find the chink in their armor, Cap, but when they curl up like that they’re pretty impenetrable.”

“ _Natasha, see if you can distract them—get them into a better position for Clint to take them out. They’re more vulnerable when they stand on their back legs to attack.”_

“On it, Cap.” Natasha was off and running, defending herself from the skittering creatures as she went, whirling to use the Widow’s Bite to stun one when it reared back to strike her in the neck.

“First the screaming eels,” Tony griped, blasting at them with his repulsors as he flew low over the street, “and now armadillo- _cockroaches_. When did we become Earth’s Mightiest _Pest Exterminators_?”

“Easy, Stark. There some phobia we should know about?” Clint retorted over the line.

“Yeah, bird-boy, I have this irrational fear of oversized meteorite bug-creature-things with razor claws, beady black eyes, and cute little button noses. You know, the house pet variety that absolutely _refuse to die_.”

As if on cue, the Hulk gave a roar of outrage as he repeatedly smashed his fist into one of the curled-up “armadillo-cockroaches.” It became more imbedded into the pavement with each blow from the green fist. But when the Hulk paused to scowl at it—despite a crack in its layers of gray meteoric armor—the creature just _popped_ itself back out of its personal little crater and skittered for the protection of a nearby alley.

“ _Hulk_ ,” Steve said, switching temporarily to the van’s external speakers, hurrying to give direction before the Hulk could go lumbering off after it like giant kitten chasing a single butterfly, “ _I need you to_ grab _. Grab, and_ squish _. You got that, big guy? No smashing. Today, it’s_ squishing. _”_

The Hulk only hesitated a minute, still staring after his escaped prey, before answering dutifully, if a little dubiously: “Hulk… _squish_.”

But he quickly demonstrated the effectiveness of this new method by immediately scooping up two of the smaller, dog-sized creatures, and squishing them in his fists with a graphic crunch (and grinning broadly all the while in approval of the Cap’s brilliant ideas for how to have fun).

“ _Thor_ ,” Steve continued, “ _Tony_ , _drive them towards Hulk. Round them up for him—don’t let him go haring off and ripping up the neighborhood unnecessarily in pursuit.”_

Thor immediately caught on, swinging his hammer, looking for all the world like a batter hitting homeruns as he literally drove them directly at Hulk, some bouncing and rolling on the ground like bowling balls, others going completely airborne. (And now Thor was grinning, too.)

Hulk, in a surprising display of giant grabby-handed coordination, began snatching them up, sometimes even mid-air. He looked like a kid catching bubbles. But everything was punctuated with a crunching and a squishingthat made them all cringe a little.

“Okay, that’s officially nasty,” Tony said, even as he “nudged” a few of the creatures Hulk-ward with a blast of the repulsors. “Really nasty.”

“Oh yeah,” Clint agreed, for a change. “Ugh. I can hear it all the way up here.”

“C’mon now, guys,” Natasha interjected mildly, even as she ducked a swipe of razor claws and maneuvered a larger creature into position for one of Clint’s combustible arrows to hit it in the soft underbelly. “Look at how happy he is. Don’t ruin it for him.”

It was true. As he continued to squish, the Hulk was coming about as close to _giggling with glee_ as they’d ever seen him. He was going to need more than a napkin to get rid of the oily black goo, but boy would he sleep well tonight after all the excitement.

Steve didn’t actually laugh, but there was definitely faint humor in his voice as he said, _“Stay on task, everyone. Don’t get distracted—this isn’t done yet. I’m looking at the street cam feed from the meteorite, and there are more headed up the street, starting to spread out. Tony, Natasha—”_

“—We’ll direct traffic,” Tony confirmed, and the two of them sped off down the block.

 _“The rest of you follow as you can—try to press them back towards the meteor. Let’s get this contained to as small an area as possible._ ”

Thor cleverly began “batting” the creatures in the same direction Tony and Natasha had gone, and the Hulk stomped gradually after the bait, still squishing and roaring his happiness.

“Will do, Cap,” Clint agreed, firing off a few final arrows before anchoring himself to the top of the building, and scaling down.

They carried on like clockwork for a while, pressing them back from whence they’d come, and Tony let out a few victory whoops, and Clint a few “oh yeah”s, as their orchestration got the job done with satisfactory efficiency. 

Steve had one of the SHIELD agents drive the van closer, needing the full on-site picture that the traffic feeds couldn’t provide with the corners of the battlefield lost in the cameras’ blind spots.

The “meteorite” wasn’t made entirely of the creatures. They peeled out of it, like seeds from a pomegranate. It kept crumbling, revealing new layers, and with each layer the creatures got a little bigger. A little faster.

And then they got to the center.

The creature was like the others, essentially, but it looked like less of a house pet than a safari elephant, or prehistoric dinosaur. The massive twisted horns, gleaming and black, that curved from its narrow skull made them all pause to gape for a moment.

It had its own little vanguard of half-a-dozen of the creatures—smaller, rhino-sized, but also equipped with jagged horns. They rampaged off in different directions. 

“ _Hulk, Thor,_ ” Steve called, over the speaker, “ _take him down_. _The big one, Hulk_.” 

“Squish?” Hulk wanted to know, poised eagerly to strike. To see if he could crunch something new.

“ _Squish, smash, grab it by the horn—use all you’ve got, big guy. Do me proud. The rest of you,_ coordinate. _Find the underbelly.”_

“Aye, aye,” Tony conformed, raining down blasts, trying to flip one of the rhino-sized armadillos over for Clint and Natasha to finish off.

They handled it, and they handled the next one, too. They handled it pretty well, if Tony did say so himself. But there were six of them, and they were _fast_ , and none of them had a hand to spare when Steve yelled out with urgency, “ _There still civilians in that building! They were supposed be evacuated!”_ just as the sound of shattering glass exploded behind them.

Steve didn’t yell at them to ditch their own confrontation. They were tied up, Natasha on the ground, Clint trying to get a clear shot around her, and Tony staving off the charge of second one coming to its fallen comrade’s aid.

Tony saw the red, white, and blue blur out of the corner of his eye, and swore, but stuck with his own battle, albeit blasting away with urgency, multiple hits to the creature’s nasty little face.

“Steve _,_ what are you _doing?”_ Natasha called desperately over the comm, clearly also having spotted him—in street clothes, shield held out in front of him—rushing towards the shattered glass window, and the civilians cowering inside the building as the creature crashed in on them.

There was silent panic on the line, Steve’s commands suddenly starkly absent. Each of them were caught up in their own struggle. Each of them too well trained to drop everything and run after Steve. (Each of them wanting nothing _but_ to drop everything and run after Steve.)

“Captain!” Thor yelled, and the Hulk’s roar mingled with it, a demand for an answer. 

“ _Stay focused!”_ Steve finally answered. “ _I got this one_.”

They obeyed. Mostly. Tony kept darting glances towards the smashed window where the shield’s colors continued to flash, mingled with the gray blur of the creature as it attacked Steve. The distraction had apparently given the civilians the time they needed to get somewhere safer, because it was just Steve and that thing in the room now. 

They were all waiting to hear to first sound of distress from Steve—the excuse, the _order_ , to step in.

“Aaand… _gotcha_ ,” Clint crowed, and sent one of his arrows squarely center-of-mass of the creature Natasha was fighting. Black goo splattered.

Only a second later, the Hulk’s roar raised in triumph, and Tony cringed again, because he had the biggest creature’s _head_ in one fist, and the rest of it wasn’t attached anymore.

“We’ve got this, Stark,” Natasha said, succinctly, already charging one of the remaining vanguard. “ _Go_.”

Tony didn’t need to be told twice. He turned, sped off—and hovered for a moment, gaping at the sight of Steve leaping and climbing the scaly back of the creature. The armor rippled beneath him, but he just kept going, crouched but sure-footed—easy as you please, just another day at the gym trying out the new treadmill on uphill mode.

The creature bucked and twisted its head, and Steve brought his shield up and sent it crashing down on the base of its neck. It didn’t crack the armor, but it did send the creature into a face-plant, which was ridiculously satisfying to watch.

It was equally satisfying to watch Steve twist away, rolling once before he was up and on his feet. The creature lifted its head with a snort like an angry bull, but Steve was already reacting, slinging the shield for its throat.

There was a crunch, and it gurgled as the shield rebounded and Steve caught it. But one of its hooked claws still swept out for Steve’s head. He ducked beneath it, evading getting his head knocked off, but not quite evading the finely-barbed hooks that raked his back.

Tony was just preparing to blast it to smithereens when the Hulk came hurtling by with one of the particularly teeth-rattling howls that Tony had had come to categorize as his _Hands Off Cap_ warning calls.

Unfortunately for the creature, it didn’t listen to the warning.

In its defense, the Hulk didn’t really give him more than the space of three seconds to react before he’d full-on body slammed it, grabbed it by the horns, and twisted its head around in a swift one-eighty-degree swivel that ended in a decisive snap.

He cast it away with a derisive grumble, and turned immediately to look at Steve. The scowl he made was downright _parental_ , and so was the way he put both fists on his hips, huffing chidingly.

Steve grinned at him, and the other Avengers gathering in. “Nice teamwork. Good job, everyone,” he said, like he actually expected to breeze this one over without mentioning his little impromptu debut. “That all of them?”

The silence—except for distant alarms and settling rubble—answered for them.

“By all the powers that be, Steven, that was reckless of you. Very reckless.” Thor stepped closer, Mjolnir clenched at his side, and his eyes smoldered (possibly quite literally) with barely-restrained fire and brimstone.

“Yes, what he said. Also, you’re grounded.” Tony alighted in a spot clear of rubble. “You’re so grounded, Cap.” 

“Fury is going to kill you,” Natasha said crisply, arms crossed.

“And we’re going to let him,” Clint added.

“Come on, guys,” Steve protested, only panting a little as he squared his shoulders, proudly gripping his shield by his side. “It was an emergency. I handled it alright. And look at me,” he spread his arms wide to indicate his dusty-yet-intact person, “I’m fine. No asthma attack. No heart attack.”

The manipulative little brat. Wide blue eyes pleaded with them to not crush the moment (and despite his latest display of competency, standing there in street clothes he still looked so achingly _young_ and not-grown-into-his-own-limbs). Combine that with the subtle reminder of all he’d survived, and it was all it took for the Hulk to cave first.

 _Pathetic_. They’d have made lousy parents, all of them.           

Like a giant mother hen gathering up her lost chick, Hulk swept Steve into a hug—and only shook him a little during his scolding, growling long and low for emphasis (and there was something decidedly _Bruce-_ like in the inflections).

Steve nodded meekly and patted Hulk’s arm soothingly. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, big guy. I had to do something…”

The Hulk crush-hugged him until Steve started making involuntary sounds of distress, at which point Natasha interjected, still looking the stern maternal part: “You hurt anywhere, Cap? Ease up a minute, Hulk. Let us see…”

Steve tried to turn the tables and check up on the rest of them, but Clint settled that with succinct firm-handedness: “Shut up, Cap, and stay still. You were the only one running around in the middle of a fight without any kind of _armor_ on.”

The Hulk lowered Steve to the ground without fully letting go of him, and Steve ruefully surrendered to the crush of concerned teammates.

 

* * *

 

Fury didn’t kill Steve, but there had definitely been words. Words that had needed to be exchanged in SHIELD medical, because as it turned out the meteorite creature’s claws had left a surprise gift.

In addition to the gashes on Steve’s back, Natasha’s had a deep cut across her left forearm, and shortly after the fight both of their injuries started to burn.

Rushed results from SHIELD’s labs deemed the chemicals on the microscopic “urticating bristles” they found in the wounds to be non-toxic, which was great. But they still packed quite a punch.

“Tarantulas have a similar defensive mechanism,” Bruce remarked, standing by with his hands in his pockets. “The severity of the reaction they can cause varies largely, of course, depending on the species. The Goliath Birdeater is one of the worst.” He’d de-Hulked an hour ago, and looked gray with exhaustion.

Steve had suggested that Bruce go rest—he’d suggested they all get some rest—but the whole team had wordlessly come to the unanimous decision to plague the infirmary with their presence, and they wouldn’t be budged. 

“Yeah?” Tony was fidgety, but he forced himself not to squirm, watching out of the corner of his eye as a nurse worked on Steve’s back. “What do the medical journals have to say about meteoric armadillo-cockroach monsters? Something reassuring, I’m sure.”

“Don’t pick a fight, Tony,” Steve’s admonishment was muffled, because he was lying on his stomach with his forehead pillowed against his arms. “We’re all done in.” The muscles in his back spasmed as the nurse swabbed at the deepest middle cut, one of five “grooves” the creatures barbed claw had left.

Even as shallow as they were, with the red rash that was beginning to spread from the edges of the cuts, there was really nothing to be said but “ouch.” And “ouch” again.

Tony grimaced. “Best behavior, Cap. Cross my heart.”

Finished with cleaning, another nurse began to dab hydrocortisone cream onto Natasha’s arm. Natasha’s face was just a little _too_ impassive to be convincing, but after a minute some of the tightness eased, and she murmured, “The cream helps a lot with the burning, Steve.”

“Good,” Steve grunted, “m’looking forward to it.”

A few minutes later Fury came _breezing_ by to visit, followed by his customary contrail of leather coat and heartless indifference.

“ _Captain Rogers_ ,” he began, in the ancient manner of authority figures using full titles as preemptive means of shaming naughty children.

Tony gave him the look one gave to Big Meanies rampaging through hospital rooms, and the rest of the team followed suit. Despite what he’d said about letting Fury kill Steve, Clint’s was as caustic a look as any of theirs.

Fury was immune to any kind of look, as they well knew.

Steve didn’t even try. He turned his head, failing to look anything but miserably sheepish as he said, “Sorry.”

“What part of ‘stay in the car’ don’t you understand, Captain?”

“It was an emergency.” Steve was focused on Fury, and an unguarded grunt of pain slipped out as the nurse wiped the blood away and applied antiseptic. “There were civilians in danger,” he added tightly, swallowing back any further display of pain. “I had to do something.”

Fury didn’t relent, because Fury never _really_ relented. But there was a sudden lack of authenticity to his callousness as he said, “You can debrief me on the particulars of your recklessness behavior later.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ah, go on, Nick,” Tony prodded cheerfully, “tell the Cap you’re proud of him. Admit it, behind that eye patch and the bashful smile we all know you’re just giddy, really—bursting to tell him how happy you are to have him back in the action. We did good out there. We did _awesome_.”

Fury raised an eyebrow, and glared around at the circle of dusty yet uninjured Avengers that included Bruce, Tony, Clint, and Thor. “What’re you clowns doing cluttering up the place? Have your after-party someplace else.”

He stalked out.

Coulson materialized briefly in his wake to say simply, “It _is_ good to have you back, Captain,” and maybe he wasn’t exactly giddy (althoughit was always hard to accurately parse those subtle shifts in degrees of diplomatic expression), but it was close enough. 

“You guys can really leave now…” Steve sighed a few minutes later, after the nurse had informed him kindly, “Almost finished, Captain.”

“And start the after-party without you, Cap?” Tony scoffed. “Hardly.”

“We must feast well,” Thor added, “all of us, to celebrate your return, and our victory.”

“Don’t take this this wrong way,” Steve shifted his head gingerly, settling his chin on his forearms, “but I’m not sure I’m up for proper feasting just now, Thor.”

Bruce crossed his arms, settling them wearily across his chest. “I’m afraid I’m with Steve. Quick bite to eat, and then some sleep.”

“We shall make up for it later,” Thor conceded.

Steve a soft noise of absentminded agreement as the nurse began to apply the hydrocortisone. The tension began to bleed from him, and when the nurse finished and left he sat up slowly to face them.

Maybe he still had a bit of growing to do yet. Maybe the jaw was still a little narrow, reminding them all of the Steve Rogers with reserves of strengths hidden in a weak frame. He’d taken a step, and gotten his back flayed open because of the risk, and healing was a process with or without the serum.

But, as far as Tony was concerned, those shoulders looked broad enough to take on the world again. 

“That was…good,” Steve mused quietly, looking at each of them in turn. “Fighting together.”

Somehow, hearing Steve say it made the moment more real. It made the actuality sink in, and it was better and more tangible than the laughter of after-parties and feasting. Just to stand there: exhausted and dirty and patched-together. A team, shaken to the core, but intact at the end of it all. 

They’d survived.

Tony wasn’t one to experience those swells of cheap happiness that turned people into utter saps. But this moment—this happiness—it wasn’t cheap. It had cost them all plenty. What’s more, he had feeling that none of the rest of them were judging him. They were all too busy grinning like fools.

Cap was back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for every review and kudos you've left! *hugs to you all* It's wonderful groups of people like you who give me the encouragement I need to go on writing (and even the guts to write original stories), and it really means a lot to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'll be posting more as RL/my beta's time permits.
> 
> I wrote the majority of this pre-CA:TWS, so this won't deal with any of that fallout (and I also, obviously, am not dealing with the fallout of Coulson's "death," either ;D I haven't been watching AoS, so the basic presumption for this is just "Coulson's alive, everyone's aware of that at this point.").
> 
> Title borrowed from the lyrics of "Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot.


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